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Title: The Happy Prince, and Other Tales

Author: Oscar Wilde

Release date: May 1, 1997 [eBook #902]
Most recently updated: October 25, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/902

Credits: David Price and Paul Redmond

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAPPY
PRINCE, AND OTHER TALES ***

The Happy Prince
And Other Tales

BY
OSCAR WILDE

ILLUSTRATED BY
WALTER CRANE AND JACOMB HOOD

SEVENTH IMPRESSION

LONDON
DAVID NUTT, 57–59 LONG ACRE
1910
First Edition May 1888
Second Impression January 1889
Third Impression February 1902
Fourth Impression September 1905
Fifth Impression February 1907
Sixth Impression March 1908
Seventh Impression March 1910

TO
CARLOS BLACKER

Contents.

The Happy Prince
The Nightingale and the Rose
The Selfish Giant
The Devoted Friend
The Remarkable Rocket

The Happy Prince.

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy
Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had
two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a
weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a
reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added,
fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of
her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never
dreams of crying for anything.”
“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a
disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came out
of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.
“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never
seen one.”

“Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the
Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not
approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone
away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in
love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he
was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted
by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at
once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her,
touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his
courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows; “she has no
money, and far too many relations”; and indeed the river was quite full of
Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love.
“She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that she is a coquette,
for she is always flirting with the wind.” And certainly, whenever the wind
blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. “I admit that she is
domestic,” he continued, “but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently,
should love travelling also.”
“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the Reed
shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
“You have been trifling with me,” he cried. “I am off to the Pyramids.
Good-bye!” and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. “Where
shall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town has made preparations.”
Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
“I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh
air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked round,
and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his
wing a large drop of water fell on him. “What a curious thing!” he cried;
“there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright,

and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful.
The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”
Then another drop fell.
“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he said; “I
must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up,
and saw—Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were
running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight
that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
“Who are you?” he said.
“I am the Happy Prince.”
“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow; “you have quite
drenched me.”
“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did
not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where
sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions
in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round
the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it,
everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy
Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so
I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can
see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is
made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep.”
“What! is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself. He was too
polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away in a
little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through
it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she
has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She
is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the
Queen’s maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the
corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for
oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying.

Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my
sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.”
“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My friends are flying up
and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go
to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his
painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices.
Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like
withered leaves.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay
with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the
mother so sad.”
“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow. “Last summer, when I
was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s sons, who
were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we
swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous
for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.”
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. “It
is very cold here,” he said; “but I will stay with you for one night, and be
your messenger.”
“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword, and
flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were
sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A
beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How wonderful the
stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful is the power of love!”
“I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,” she answered;
“I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the
seamstresses are so lazy.”
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the
ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with
each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the
poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and
the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the
great ruby on the table beside the woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently

round the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his wings. “How cool I
feel,” said the boy, “I must be getting better”; and he sank into a delicious
slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he
had done. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite warm now, although
it is so cold.”
“That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And the
little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always
made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a
remarkable phenomenon,” said the Professor of Ornithology as he was
passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long letter
about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many
words that they could not understand.
“To-night I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at
the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on
top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and
said to each other, “What a distinguished stranger!” so he enjoyed himself
very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. “Have you any
commissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay
with me one night longer?”
“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the Swallow. “To-morrow my
friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there
among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon.
All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he
utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come
down to the water’s edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and
their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “far away across the
city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with
papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His
hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has
large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the

Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate,
and hunger has made him faint.”
“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, who really had
a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?”
“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all that I have
left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a
thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it
to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.”
“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that”; and he began to
weep.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command
you.”
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the
student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof.
Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his
head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings,
and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the
withered violets.
“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from some great
admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast
of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold
with ropes. “Heave a-hoy!” they shouted as each chest came up. “I am
going to Egypt”! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the
moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay
with me one night longer?”
“It is winter,” answered the Swallow, “and the chill snow will soon be
here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles
lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a
nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching
them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will
never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels

in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red
rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.”
“In the square below,” said the Happy Prince, “there stands a little match-
girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her
father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is
crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out
my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.”
“I will stay with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, “but I cannot
pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command
you.”
So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He
swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her
hand. “What a lovely bit of glass,” cried the little girl; and she ran home,
laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind now,” he said,
“so I will stay with you always.”
“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you must go away to Egypt.”
“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow, and he slept at the
Prince’s feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told him stories of
what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand
in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of
the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and
knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their
camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains
of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the
great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it
with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat
leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvellous things,
but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women.
There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow,
and tell me what you see there.”

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry
in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He
flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking
out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little
boys were lying in one another’s arms to try and keep themselves warm.
“How hungry we are!” they said. “You must not lie here,” shouted the
Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it off, leaf
by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make
them happy.”
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy
Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought
to the poor, and the children’s faces grew rosier, and they laughed and
played games in the street. “We have bread now!” they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets
looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening;
long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses,
everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and
skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave
the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker’s
door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by
flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly
up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-bye, dear Prince!” he
murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”
“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the
Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips,
for I love you.”
“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going to the
House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his
feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something
had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It
certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in
company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked
up at the statue: “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!” he said.
“How shabby indeed!” cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed
with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden
no longer,” said the Mayor in fact, “he is little better than a beggar!”
“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town Councillors.
“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the Mayor. “We
must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die
here.” And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he is no longer
beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting
of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. “We must
have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of myself.”
“Of myself,” said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled.
When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
“What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.
“This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it
away.” So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also
lying.
“Bring me the two most precious things in the city,” said God to one of
His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for in my garden of Paradise this
little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince
shall praise me.”

The Nightingale and the Rose.

“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,” cried
the young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red rose.”
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she
looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled
with tears. “Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all
that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine,
yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.”
“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night have
I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story
to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom,
and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face
like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”
“The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,” murmured the young Student,
“and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will
dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my
arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be
clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely,

and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will
break.”
“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing of, he
suffers—what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing.
It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and
pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not
be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for
gold.”
“The musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young Student, “and
play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of
the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch
the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But
with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her”; and he flung
himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him
with his tail in the air.
“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a
sunbeam.
“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.
“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the little Lizard,
who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and
she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed
across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and
when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the foam of the sea, and
whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows
round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the
old sun-dial.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of the
mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil
that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go
to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window, and perhaps he
will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath
the Student’s window.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the feet of the dove, and
redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern.
But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and
the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this
year.”
“One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale, “only one red rose! Is
there no way by which I can get it?”
“There is a way,” answered the Tree; “but it is so terrible that I dare not
tell it to you.”
“Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not afraid.”
“If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must build it out of music by
moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to me
with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the
thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins,
and become mine.”
“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “and
Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch
the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is
the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley,
and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what
is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?”

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She
swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through
the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him,
and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your red
rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own
heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover,
for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than
Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured
like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like
frankincense.”
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not
understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the
things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the
little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I shall feel very lonely when
you are gone.”
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water
bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-
book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove
—“that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In
fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She
would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and
everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she
has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not
mean anything, or do any practical good.” And he went into his room, and
lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a
time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the
Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with
her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and

listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into
her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on
the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose,
petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist
that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the
wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the
shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the
topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.
“Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come
before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and
louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a
man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the
flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But
the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remained white,
for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.
“Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come
before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched
her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the
pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is
perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky.
Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to
beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and
she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she
forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it
trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air.
Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping

shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and
they carried its message to the sea.
“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now”; but the
Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with
the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here is a red rose! I
have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am
sure it has a long Latin name”; and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose
in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue
silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,”
cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it
to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love
you.”
But the girl frowned.
“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and, besides,
the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody
knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”
“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student angrily;
and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-
wheel went over it.
“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after
all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe you have even got
silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has”; and she got
up from her chair and went into the house.
“What a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away. “It is
not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always
telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe
things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to
be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study
Metaphysics.”

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began
to read.

The Selfish Giant.

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to
go and play in the Giant’s garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over
the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-
trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and
pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang
so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to
them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.

One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish
ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were
over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and
he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the
children playing in the garden.
“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the
children ran away.
“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any one can
understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he
built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.
TRESPASSERS
WILL BE
PROSECUTED
He was a very selfish Giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the
road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not
like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were
over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we were
there,” they said to each other.

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms
and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter.
The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees
forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass,
but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it
slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people
who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this
garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year round.” The Snow
covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the
trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he
came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and
blew the chimney-pots down. “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must
ask the Hail on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he
rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he
ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in
grey, and his breath was like ice.
“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the
Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white
garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden
fruit to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too
selfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and
the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some
lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the
King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside
his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden
that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the
Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and
a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the
Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and
looked out.
What did he see?
He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the
children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In
every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so

glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with
blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads.
The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers
were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely
scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the
garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not
reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it,
crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow,
and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. “Climb up! little
boy,” said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the
boy was too tiny.
And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have
been!” he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will
put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the
wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and ever.”
He was really very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went
out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened
that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little
boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the
Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his
hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom,
and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two
arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other
children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came
running back, and with them came the Spring. “It is your garden now, little
children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the
wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they
found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they
had ever seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to
bid him good-bye.
“But where is your little companion?” he said: “the boy I put into the
tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
“We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”

“You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,” said the Giant.
But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never
seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played
with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen
again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first
little friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he
used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not
play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children
at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful flowers,” he
said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”
One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He
did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring
asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It
certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a
tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden,
and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy
he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He
hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came
quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to
wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two
nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may
take my big sword and slay him.”
“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”
“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he
knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play
once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is
Paradise.”
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying
dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

The Devoted Friend.

One morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright
beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black
india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking
just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with
real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the
water.
“You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your
heads,” she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them
how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so
young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.
“What disobedient children!” cried the old Water-rat; “they really deserve
to be drowned.”
“Nothing of the kind,” answered the Duck, “every one must make a
beginning, and parents cannot be too patient.”
“Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents,” said the Water-rat; “I
am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend
to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed,

I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted
friendship.”
“And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?” asked a
Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard
the conversation.
“Yes, that is just what I want to know,” said the Duck; and she swam
away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her
children a good example.
“What a silly question!” cried the Water-rat. “I should expect my devoted
friend to be devoted to me, of course.”
“And what would you do in return?” said the little bird, swinging upon a
silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.
“I don’t understand you,” answered the Water-rat.
“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the Linnet.
“Is the story about me?” asked the Water-rat. “If so, I will listen to it, for
I am extremely fond of fiction.”
“It is applicable to you,” answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and
alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.
“Once upon a time,” said the Linnet, “there was an honest little fellow
named Hans.”
“Was he very distinguished?” asked the Water-rat.
“No,” answered the Linnet, “I don’t think he was distinguished at all,
except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He
lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his
garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-
william grew there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds’-purses, and Fair-
maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac
Crocuses, and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock,
Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil
and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the
months went by, one flower taking another flower’s place, so that there
were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.
“Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all
was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little

Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall
and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his
pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.
“‘Real friends should have everything in common,’ the Miller used to
say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a
friend with such noble ideas.
“Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller
never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of
flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of
woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and
nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things
the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.
“So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the
summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and
he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal
from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a
few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely
lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.
“‘There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow
lasts,’ the Miller used to say to his wife, ‘for when people are in trouble
they should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my
idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring
comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a
large basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.’
“‘You are certainly very thoughtful about others,’ answered the Wife, as
she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; ‘very
thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am
sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do,
though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his
little finger.’
“‘But could we not ask little Hans up here?’ said the Miller’s youngest
son. ‘If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show
him my white rabbits.’
“‘What a silly boy you are!’ cried the Miller; ‘I really don’t know what is
the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why, if
little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and

our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible
thing, and would spoil anybody’s nature. I certainly will not allow Hans’
nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him,
and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here,
he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not
do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be
confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different
things. Everybody can see that.’
“‘How well you talk!’ said the Miller’s Wife, pouring herself out a large
glass of warm ale; ‘really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.’
“‘Lots of people act well,’ answered the Miller; ‘but very few people talk
well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two,
and much the finer thing also’; and he looked sternly across the table at his
little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and
grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young
that you must excuse him.”
“Is that the end of the story?” asked the Water-rat.
“Certainly not,” answered the Linnet, “that is the beginning.”
“Then you are quite behind the age,” said the Water-rat. “Every good
story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning,
and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it
the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young
man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have
been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the
young man made any remark, he always answered ‘Pooh!’ But pray go on
with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful
sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us.”
“Well,” said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other,
“as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale
yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little
Hans.
“‘Why, what a good heart you have!’ cried his Wife; ‘you are always
thinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the
flowers.’

“So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron
chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.
“‘Good morning, little Hans,’ said the Miller.
“‘Good morning,’ said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear
to ear.
“‘And how have you been all the winter?’ said the Miller.
“‘Well, really,’ cried Hans, ‘it is very good of you to ask, very good
indeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has
come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.’
“‘We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘and
wondered how you were getting on.’
“‘That was kind of you,’ said Hans; ‘I was half afraid you had forgotten
me.’
“‘Hans, I am surprised at you,’ said the Miller; ‘friendship never forgets.
That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don’t understand
the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye!”
“‘They are certainly very lovely,’ said Hans, ‘and it is a most lucky thing
for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the market and
sell them to the Burgomaster’s daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow
with the money.’
“‘Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don’t mean to say you have sold it?
What a very stupid thing to do!’
“‘Well, the fact is,’ said Hans, ‘that I was obliged to. You see the winter
was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread
with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold
my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my
wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.’
“‘Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in
very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong
with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is
very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely
foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think that
generosity is the essence of friendship, and, besides, I have got a new
wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give
you my wheelbarrow.’

“‘Well, really, that is generous of you,’ said little Hans, and his funny
round face glowed all over with pleasure. ‘I can easily put it in repair, as I
have a plank of wood in the house.’
“‘A plank of wood!’ said the Miller; ‘why, that is just what I want for the
roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get
damp if I don’t stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is quite
remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given you
my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course,
the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true, friendship never
notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will set to work at my barn
this very day.’
“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the
plank out.
“‘It is not a very big plank,’ said the Miller, looking at it, ‘and I am afraid
that after I have mended my barn-roof there won’t be any left for you to
mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault. And now,
as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me
some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.’
“‘Quite full?’ said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very
big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for
the market and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back.
“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘as I have given you my
wheelbarrow, I don’t think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I
may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true friendship,
was quite free from selfishness of any kind.’
“‘My dear friend, my best friend,’ cried little Hans, ‘you are welcome to
all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion
than my silver buttons, any day’; and he ran and plucked all his pretty
primroses, and filled the Miller’s basket.
“‘Good-bye, little Hans,’ said the Miller, as he went up the hill with the
plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand.
“‘Good-bye,’ said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he
was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.
“The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch,
when he heard the Miller’s voice calling to him from the road. So he

jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.
“There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.
“‘Dear little Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘would you mind carrying this sack of
flour for me to market?’
“‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said Hans, ‘but I am really very busy to-day. I have
got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass
to roll.’
“‘Well, really,’ said the Miller, ‘I think that, considering that I am going
to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.’
“‘Oh, don’t say that,’ cried little Hans, ‘I wouldn’t be unfriendly for the
whole world’; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on
his shoulders.
“It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans
had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and
rest. However, he went on bravely, and as last he reached the market. After
he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good
price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that if he
stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way.
“‘It has certainly been a hard day,’ said little Hans to himself as he was
going to bed, ‘but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is my best
friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.’
“Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his
sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed.
“‘Upon my word,’ said the Miller, ‘you are very lazy. Really, considering
that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work
harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don’t like any of my friends to
be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of
course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is
the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody
can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend
always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he
is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.’
“‘I am very sorry,’ said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his
night-cap, ‘but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little

time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work better
after hearing the birds sing?’
“‘Well, I am glad of that,’ said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the
back, ‘for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and
mend my barn-roof for me.’
“Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his
flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse the
Miller, as he was such a good friend to him.
“‘Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?’ he
inquired in a shy and timid voice.
“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘I do not think it is much to ask of
you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course
if you refuse I will go and do it myself.’
“‘Oh! on no account,’ cried little Hans and he jumped out of bed, and
dressed himself, and went up to the barn.
“He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came
to see how he was getting on.
“‘Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?’ cried the Miller
in a cheery voice.
“‘It is quite mended,’ answered little Hans, coming down the ladder.
“‘Ah!’ said the Miller, ‘there is no work so delightful as the work one
does for others.’
“‘It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,’ answered little Hans,
sitting down, and wiping his forehead, ‘a very great privilege. But I am
afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.’
“‘Oh! they will come to you,’ said the Miller, ‘but you must take more
pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you
will have the theory also.’
“‘Do you really think I shall?’ asked little Hans.
“‘I have no doubt of it,’ answered the Miller, ‘but now that you have
mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive
my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.’
“Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next
morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans started

off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and
back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his
chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.
“‘What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,’ he said, and he went
to work at once.
“But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his
friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long
errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much
distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had
forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller was
his best friend. ‘Besides,’ he used to say, ‘he is going to give me his
wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.’
“So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds
of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a note-book,
and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar.
“Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside
when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind
was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought
it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third, louder
than any of the others.
“‘It is some poor traveller,’ said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the
door.
“There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the
other.
“‘Dear little Hans,’ cried the Miller, ‘I am in great trouble. My little boy
has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But
he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to
me that it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am
going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so, it is only fair that you should do
something for me in return.’
“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, ‘I take it quite as a compliment your
coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your
lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.’
“‘I am very sorry,’ answered the Miller, ‘but it is my new lantern, and it
would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.’

“‘Well, never mind, I will do without it,’ cried little Hans, and he took
down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round
his throat, and started off.
“What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans
could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand.
However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about
three hours, he arrived at the Doctor’s house, and knocked at the door.
“‘Who is there?’ cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom
window.
“‘Little Hans, Doctor.’
“’What do you want, little Hans?’
“‘The Miller’s son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and the
Miller wants you to come at once.’
“‘All right!’ said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big boots,
and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the
Miller’s house, little Hans trudging behind him.
“But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and
little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse. At
last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very
dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was
drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating in a
great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage.
“Everybody went to little Hans’ funeral, as he was so popular, and the
Miller was the chief mourner.
“‘As I was his best friend,’ said the Miller, ‘it is only fair that I should
have the best place’; so he walked at the head of the procession in a long
black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-
handkerchief.
“‘Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,’ said the Blacksmith,
when the funeral was over, and they were all seated comfortably in the inn,
drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.
“‘A great loss to me at any rate,’ answered the Miller; ‘why, I had as
good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don’t know what to
do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair

that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to
give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous.’”
“Well?” said the Water-rat, after a long pause.
“Well, that is the end,” said the Linnet.
“But what became of the Miller?” asked the Water-rat.
“Oh! I really don’t know,” replied the Linnet; “and I am sure that I don’t
care.”
“It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature,” said
the Water-rat.
“I am afraid you don’t quite see the moral of the story,” remarked the
Linnet.
“The what?” screamed the Water-rat.
“The moral.”
“Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?”
“Certainly,” said the Linnet.
“Well, really,” said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, “I think you
should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I certainly
would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said ‘Pooh,’ like the
critic. However, I can say it now”; so he shouted out “Pooh” at the top of
his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole.
“And how do you like the Water-rat?” asked the Duck, who came
paddling up some minutes afterwards. “He has a great many good points,
but for my own part I have a mother’s feelings, and I can never look at a
confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes.”
“I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,” answered the Linnet. “The
fact is, that I told him a story with a moral.”
“Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do,” said the Duck.
And I quite agree with her.

The Remarkable Rocket.

The King’s son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings.
He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived. She was
a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from Finland in a sledge drawn

by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a great golden swan, and between
the swan’s wings lay the little Princess herself. Her long ermine-cloak reached
right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was
as pale as the Snow Palace in which she had always lived. So pale was she that
as she drove through the streets all the people wondered. “She is like a white
rose!” they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.

At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had
dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he sank
upon one knee, and kissed her hand.
“Your picture was beautiful,” he murmured, “but you are more beautiful
than your picture”; and the little Princess blushed.
“She was like a white rose before,” said a young Page to his neighbour, “but
she is like a red rose now”; and the whole Court was delighted.
For the next three days everybody went about saying, “White rose, Red
rose, Red rose, White rose”; and the King gave orders that the Page’s salary
was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of much use to
him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly published in the Court
Gazette.
When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a
magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand
under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then there was
a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and Princess sat at the
top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear crystal. Only true lovers

could drink out of this cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull
and cloudy.
“It’s quite clear that they love each other,” said the little Page, “as clear as
crystal!” and the King doubled his salary a second time. “What an honour!”
cried all the courtiers.
After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were to
dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the flute.
He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so, because he was
the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never quite certain which
one he was playing; but it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody
cried out, “Charming! charming!”
The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be let
off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a firework in her
life, so the King had given orders that the Royal Pyrotechnist should be in
attendance on the day of her marriage.
“What are fireworks like?” she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she
was walking on the terrace.
“They are like the Aurora Borealis,” said the King, who always answered
questions that were addressed to other people, “only much more natural. I
prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to
appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must certainly
see them.”
So at the end of the King’s garden a great stand had been set up, and as soon
as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place, the fireworks
began to talk to each other.
“The world is certainly very beautiful,” cried a little Squib. “Just look at
those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers they could not be lovelier.
I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the mind wonderfully, and
does away with all one’s prejudices.”
“The King’s garden is not the world, you foolish squib,” said a big Roman
Candle; “the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days to
see it thoroughly.”
“Any place you love is the world to you,” exclaimed a pensive Catherine
Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided
herself on her broken heart; “but love is not fashionable any more, the poets
have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody believed them, and I

am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once—
But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past.”
“Nonsense!” said the Roman Candle, “Romance never dies. It is like the
moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love each
other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a brown-paper
cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as myself, and knew
the latest Court news.”
But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. “Romance is dead, Romance is
dead, Romance is dead,” she murmured. She was one of those people who
think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times, it
becomes true in the end.
Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.
It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the end of
a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation, so as to
attract attention.
“Ahem! ahem!” he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine
Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, “Romance is dead.”
“Order! order!” cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician, and
had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew the proper
Parliamentary expressions to use.
“Quite dead,” whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep.
As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time and
began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating his
memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he was
talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner.
“How fortunate it is for the King’s son,” he remarked, “that he is to be
married on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really, if it had been
arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him; but, Princes
are always lucky.”
“Dear me!” said the little Squib, “I thought it was quite the other way, and
that we were to be let off in the Prince’s honour.”
“It may be so with you,” he answered; “indeed, I have no doubt that it is,
but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come of
remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel of
her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her great
public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went out, and

each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink stars. She was three
feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very best gunpowder. My father
was a Rocket like myself, and of French extraction. He flew so high that the
people were afraid that he would never come down again. He did, though, for
he was of a kindly disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a
shower of golden rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very
flattering terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic
art.”
“Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean,” said a Bengal Light; “I know it is
Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister.”
“Well, I said Pylotechnic,” answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of voice,
and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to bully the little
squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of some importance.
“I was saying,” continued the Rocket, “I was saying—What was I saying?”
“You were talking about yourself,” replied the Roman Candle.
“Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was so
rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind, for I am
extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive as I am, I am
quite sure of that.”
“What is a sensitive person?” said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.
“A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other
people’s toes,” answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the Cracker
nearly exploded with laughter.
“Pray, what are you laughing at?” inquired the Rocket; “I am not laughing.”
“I am laughing because I am happy,” replied the Cracker.
“That is a very selfish reason,” said the Rocket angrily. “What right have
you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you should be
thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I expect everybody
else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy. It is a beautiful virtue,
and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose, for instance, anything happened to
me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for every one! The Prince and
Princess would never be happy again, their whole married life would be
spoiled; and as for the King, I know he would not get over it. Really, when I
begin to reflect on the importance of my position, I am almost moved to
tears.”

“If you want to give pleasure to others,” cried the Roman Candle, “you had
better keep yourself dry.”
“Certainly,” exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits;
“that is only common sense.”
“Common sense, indeed!” said the Rocket indignantly; “you forget that I
am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common
sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination, for I
never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as being quite
different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at
all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don’t care. The
only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense
inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always
cultivated. But none of you have any hearts. Here you are laughing and
making merry just as if the Prince and Princess had not just been married.”
“Well, really,” exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, “why not? It is a most joyful
occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the stars all about it.
You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about the pretty bride.”
“Ah! what a trivial view of life!” said the Rocket; “but it is only what I
expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why, perhaps
the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there is a deep river,
and perhaps they may have one only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet
eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk
with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree;
and perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned. What a
terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their only son! It is really too
dreadful! I shall never get over it.”
“But they have not lost their only son,” said the Roman Candle; “no
misfortune has happened to them at all.”
“I never said that they had,” replied the Rocket; “I said that they might. If
they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying anything more
about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk. But when I think that
they might lose their only son, I certainly am very much affected.”
“You certainly are!” cried the Bengal Light. “In fact, you are the most
affected person I ever met.”
“You are the rudest person I ever met,” said the Rocket, “and you cannot
understand my friendship for the Prince.”

“Why, you don’t even know him,” growled the Roman Candle.
“I never said I knew him,” answered the Rocket. “I dare say that if I knew
him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing to know one’s
friends.”
“You had really better keep yourself dry,” said the Fire-balloon. “That is the
important thing.”
“Very important for you, I have no doubt,” answered the Rocket, “but I
shall weep if I choose”; and he actually burst into real tears, which flowed
down his stick like rain-drops, and nearly drowned two little beetles, who
were just thinking of setting up house together, and were looking for a nice
dry spot to live in.
“He must have a truly romantic nature,” said the Catherine Wheel, “for he
weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about”; and she heaved a deep sigh,
and thought about the deal box.
But the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and kept
saying, “Humbug! humbug!” at the top of their voices. They were extremely
practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called it humbug.
Then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began to
shine, and a sound of music came from the palace.
The Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so beautifully
that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and watched them, and the
great red poppies nodded their heads and beat time.
Then ten o’clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the last
stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the King sent for the
Royal Pyrotechnist.
“Let the fireworks begin,” said the King; and the Royal Pyrotechnist made a
low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden. He had six attendants
with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of a long pole.
It was certainly a magnificent display.
Whizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round.
Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced all over the
place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet. “Good-bye,” cried
the Fire-balloon, as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks. Bang! Bang!
answered the Crackers, who were enjoying themselves immensely. Every one
was a great success except the Remarkable Rocket. He was so damp with
crying that he could not go off at all. The best thing in him was the

gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it was of no use. All his poor
relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot up into the
sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried
the Court; and the little Princess laughed with pleasure.
“I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion,” said the Rocket;
“no doubt that is what it means,” and he looked more supercilious than ever.
The next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. “This is evidently a
deputation,” said the Rocket; “I will receive them with becoming dignity” so
he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as if he were thinking
about some very important subject. But they took no notice of him at all till
they were just going away. Then one of them caught sight of him. “Hallo!” he
cried, “what a bad rocket!” and he threw him over the wall into the ditch.
“Bad Rocket? Bad Rocket?” he said, as he whirled through the air;
“impossible! Grand Rocket, that is what the man said. Bad and Grand sound
very much the same, indeed they often are the same”; and he fell into the mud.
“It is not comfortable here,” he remarked, “but no doubt it is some
fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my health.
My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I require rest.”
Then a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat,
swam up to him.
“A new arrival, I see!” said the Frog. “Well, after all there is nothing like
mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do you think it
will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I hope so, but the sky is quite blue and
cloudless. What a pity!”
“Ahem! ahem!” said the Rocket, and he began to cough.
“What a delightful voice you have!” cried the Frog. “Really it is quite like a
croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the world. You will
hear our glee-club this evening. We sit in the old duck pond close by the
farmer’s house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin. It is so entrancing that
everybody lies awake to listen to us. In fact, it was only yesterday that I heard
the farmer’s wife say to her mother that she could not get a wink of sleep at
night on account of us. It is most gratifying to find oneself so popular.”
“Ahem! ahem!” said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed that he
could not get a word in.
“A delightful voice, certainly,” continued the Frog; “I hope you will come
over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my daughters. I have six beautiful

daughters, and I am so afraid the Pike may meet them. He is a perfect monster,
and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off them. Well, good-bye: I have
enjoyed our conversation very much, I assure you.”
“Conversation, indeed!” said the Rocket. “You have talked the whole time
yourself. That is not conversation.”
“Somebody must listen,” answered the Frog, “and I like to do all the talking
myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments.”
“But I like arguments,” said the Rocket.
“I hope not,” said the Frog complacently. “Arguments are extremely vulgar,
for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions. Good-bye a
second time; I see my daughters in the distance;” and the little Frog swam
away.
“You are a very irritating person,” said the Rocket, “and very ill-bred. I hate
people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to talk about
oneself, as I do. It is what I call selfishness, and selfishness is a most
detestable thing, especially to any one of my temperament, for I am well
known for my sympathetic nature. In fact, you should take example by me;
you could not possibly have a better model. Now that you have the chance you
had better avail yourself of it, for I am going back to Court almost
immediately. I am a great favourite at Court; in fact, the Prince and Princess
were married yesterday in my honour. Of course you know nothing of these
matters, for you are a provincial.”
“There is no good talking to him,” said a Dragon-fly, who was sitting on the
top of a large brown bulrush; “no good at all, for he has gone away.”
“Well, that is his loss, not mine,” answered the Rocket. “I am not going to
stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like hearing myself
talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by
myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of
what I am saying.”
“Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy,” said the Dragon-fly; and
he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky.
“How very silly of him not to stay here!” said the Rocket. “I am sure that he
has not often got such a chance of improving his mind. However, I don’t care
a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some day”; and he sank down
a little deeper into the mud.

After some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow legs,
and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her waddle.
“Quack, quack, quack,” she said. “What a curious shape you are! May I ask
were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?”
“It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country,” answered the
Rocket, “otherwise you would know who I am. However, I excuse your
ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as
oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I can fly up into the sky,
and come down in a shower of golden rain.”
“I don’t think much of that,” said the Duck, “as I cannot see what use it is to
any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the
horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, that would be something.”
“My good creature,” cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of voice, “I see
that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my position is never useful.
We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than sufficient. I have no
sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as
you seem to recommend. Indeed, I have always been of opinion that hard
work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.”
“Well, well,” said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition, and
never quarrelled with any one, “everybody has different tastes. I hope, at any
rate, that you are going to take up your residence here.”
“Oh! dear no,” cried the Rocket. “I am merely a visitor, a distinguished
visitor. The fact is that I find this place rather tedious. There is neither society
here, nor solitude. In fact, it is essentially suburban. I shall probably go back
to Court, for I know that I am destined to make a sensation in the world.”
“I had thoughts of entering public life once myself,” remarked the Duck;
“there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I took the chair at a
meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning everything
that we did not like. However, they did not seem to have much effect. Now I
go in for domesticity, and look after my family.”
“I am made for public life,” said the Rocket, “and so are all my relations,
even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite great attention. I
have not actually appeared myself, but when I do so it will be a magnificent
sight. As for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and distracts one’s mind from
higher things.”

“Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!” said the Duck; “and that
reminds me how hungry I feel”: and she swam away down the stream, saying,
“Quack, quack, quack.”
“Come back! come back!” screamed the Rocket, “I have a great deal to say
to you”; but the Duck paid no attention to him. “I am glad that she has gone,”
he said to himself, “she has a decidedly middle-class mind”; and he sank a
little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the loneliness of
genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came running down the
bank, with a kettle and some faggots.
“This must be the deputation,” said the Rocket, and he tried to look very
dignified.
“Hallo!” cried one of the boys, “look at this old stick! I wonder how it came
here”; and he picked the rocket out of the ditch.
“Old Stick!” said the Rocket, “impossible! Gold Stick, that is what he said.
Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he mistakes me for one of the Court
dignitaries!”
“Let us put it into the fire!” said the other boy, “it will help to boil the
kettle.”
So they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and lit the
fire.
“This is magnificent,” cried the Rocket, “they are going to let me off in
broad day-light, so that every one can see me.”
“We will go to sleep now,” they said, “and when we wake up the kettle will
be boiled”; and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes.
The Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last,
however, the fire caught him.
“Now I am going off!” he cried, and he made himself very stiff and straight.
“I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much higher than the moon,
much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall go so high that—”
Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air.
“Delightful!” he cried, “I shall go on like this for ever. What a success I
am!”
But nobody saw him.
Then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.

“Now I am going to explode,” he cried. “I shall set the whole world on fire,
and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else for a whole
year.” And he certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the gunpowder.
There was no doubt about it.
But nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound
asleep.
Then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the back of
a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.
“Good heavens!” cried the Goose. “It is going to rain sticks”; and she
rushed into the water.
“I knew I should create a great sensation,” gasped the Rocket, and he went
out.

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