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down just over the wood, as we lay in our nest. She blew
upon us young ones; and all died except we two. Coo!
Coo!’
‘What is that you say up there?’ cried little Gerda.
‘Where did the Snow Queen go to? Do you know
anything about it?’
‘She is no doubt gone to Lapland; for there is always
snow and ice there. Only ask the Reindeer, who is
tethered there.’
‘Ice and snow is there! There it is, glorious and
beautiful!’ said the Reindeer. ‘One can spring about in the
large shining valleys! The Snow Queen has her summertent
there; but her fixed abode is high up towards the
North Pole, on the Island called Spitzbergen.’
‘Oh, Kay! Poor little Kay!’ sighed Gerda.
‘Do you choose to be quiet?’ said the robber maiden.
‘If you don’t, I shall make you.’

In the morning Gerda told her all that the Woodpigeons
had said; and the little maiden looked very serious,
but she nodded her head, and said, ‘That’s no matter-that’s
no matter. Do you know where Lapland lies!’ she asked of
the Reindeer.
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‘Who should know better than I?’ said the animal; and
his eyes rolled in his head. ‘I was born and bred there—
there I leapt about on the fields of snow.
‘Listen,’ said the robber maiden to Gerda. ‘You see that
the men are gone; but my mother is still here, and will
remain. However, towards morning she takes a draught
out of the large flask, and then she sleeps a little: then I
will do something for you.’ She now jumped out of bed,
flew to her mother; with her arms round her neck, and
pulling her by the beard, said, ‘Good morrow, my own
sweet nanny-goat of a mother.’ And her mother took hold
of her nose, and pinched it till it was red and blue; but this
was all done out of pure love.
When the mother had taken a sup at her flask, and was
having a nap, the little robber maiden went to the
Reindeer, and said, ‘I should very much like to give you
still many a tickling with the sharp knife, for then you are
so amusing; however, I will untether you, and help you
out, so that you may go back to Lapland. But you must
make good use of your legs; and take this little girl for me
to the palace of the Snow Queen, where her playfellow is.
You have heard, I suppose, all she said; for she spoke loud
enough, and you were listening.’
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The Reindeer gave a bound for joy. The robber
maiden lifted up little Gerda, and took the precaution to
bind her fast on the Reindeer’s back; she even gave her a
small cushion to sit on. ‘Here are your worsted leggins, for
it will be cold; but the muff I shall keep for myself, for it is
so very pretty. But I do not wish you to be cold. Here is a
pair of lined gloves of my mother’s; they just reach up to
your elbow. On with them! Now you look about the
hands just like my ugly old mother!’
And Gerda wept for joy.
‘I can’t bear to see you fretting,’ said the little robber
maiden. ‘This is just the time when you ought to look
pleased. Here are two loaves and a ham for you, so that
you won’t starve.’ The bread and the meat were fastened
to the Reindeer’s back; the little maiden opened the door,
called in all the dogs, and then with her knife cut the rope
that fastened the animal, and said to him, ‘Now, off with
you; but take good care of the little girl!’
And Gerda stretched out her hands with the large
wadded gloves towards the robber maiden, and said,
‘Farewell!’ and the Reindeer flew on over bush and
bramble through the great wood, over moor and heath, as
fast as he could go.
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‘Ddsa! Ddsa!’ was heard in the sky. It was just as if
somebody was sneezing.
‘These are my old northern-lights,’ said the Reindeer,
‘look how they gleam! And on he now sped still
quicker—day and night on he went: the loaves were
consumed, and the ham too; and now they were in
Lapland.
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SIXTH STORY. The Lapland Woman and
the Finland Woman
Suddenly they stopped before a little house, which
looked very miserable. The roof reached to the ground;
and the door was so low, that the family were obliged to
creep upon their stomachs when they went in or out.
Nobody was at home except an old Lapland woman, who
was dressing fish by the light of an oil lamp. And the
Reindeer told her the whole of Gerda’s history, but first of
all his own; for that seemed to him of much greater
importance. Gerda was so chilled that she could not speak.
‘Poor thing,’ said the Lapland woman, ‘you have far to
run still. You have more than a hundred miles to go
before you get to Finland; there the Snow Queen has her
country-house, and burns blue lights every evening. I will
give you a few words from me, which I will write on a
dried haberdine, for paper I have none; this you can take
with you to the Finland woman, and she will be able to
give you more information than I can.’
When Gerda had warmed herself, and had eaten and
drunk, the Lapland woman wrote a few words on a dried
haberdine, begged Gerda to take care of them, put her on
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the Reindeer, bound her fast, and away sprang the animal.
‘Ddsa! Ddsa!’ was again heard in the air; the most
charming blue lights burned the whole night in the sky,
and at last they came to Finland. They knocked at the
chimney of the Finland woman; for as to a door, she had
none.
There was such a heat inside that the Finland woman
herself went about almost naked. She was diminutive and
dirty. She immediately loosened little Gerda’s
clothes, pulled off her thick gloves and boots; for
otherwise the heat would have been too great—and after
laying a piece of ice on the Reindeer’s head, read what
was written on the fish-skin. She read it three times: she
then knew it by heart; so she put the fish into the
cupboard —for it might very well be eaten, and she never
threw anything away.
Then the Reindeer related his own story first, and
afterwards that of little Gerda; and the Finland woman
winked her eyes, but said nothing.
‘You are so clever,’ said the Reindeer; ‘you can, I
know, twist all the winds of the world together in a knot.
If the seaman loosens one knot, then he has a good wind;
if a second, then it blows pretty stiffly; if he undoes the
third and fourth, then it rages so that the forests are
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upturned. Will you give the little maiden a potion, that
she may possess the strength of twelve men, and vanquish
the Snow Queen?’
‘The strength of twelve men!’ said the Finland woman.
‘Much good that would be!’ Then she went to a
cupboard, and drew out a large skin rolled up. When she
had unrolled it, strange characters were to be seen written
thereon; and the Finland woman read at such a rate that
the perspiration trickled down her forehead.
But the Reindeer begged so hard for little Gerda, and
Gerda looked so imploringly with tearful eyes at the
Finland woman, that she winked, and drew the Reindeer
aside into a corner, where they whispered together, while
the animal got some fresh ice put on his head.
‘‘Tis true little Kay is at the Snow Queen’s, and finds
everything there quite to his taste; and he thinks it the
very best place in the world; but the reason of that is, he
has a splinter of glass in his eye, and in his heart. These
must be got out first; otherwise he will never go back to
mankind, and the Snow Queen will retain her power over
him.’
‘But can you give little Gerda nothing to take which
will endue her with power over the whole?’
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‘I can give her no more power than what she has
already. ‘Don’t you see how great it is? Don’t you see how
men and animals are forced to serve her; how well she gets
through the world barefooted? She must not hear of her
power from us; that power lies in her heart, because she is
a sweet and innocent child! If she cannot get to the Snow
Queen by herself, and rid little Kay of the glass, we cannot
help her. Two miles hence the garden of the Snow Queen
begins; thither you may carry the little girl. Set her down
by the large bush with red berries, standing in the snow;
don’t stay talking, but hasten back as fast as possible.’ And
now the Finland woman placed little Gerda on the
Reindeer’s back, and off he ran with all imaginable speed.
‘Oh! I have not got my boots! I have not brought my
gloves!’ cried little Gerda. She remarked she was without
them from the cutting frost; but the Reindeer dared not
stand still; on he ran till he came to the great bush with
the red berries, and there he set Gerda down, kissed her
mouth, while large bright tears flowed from the animal’s
eyes, and then back he went as fast as possible. There
stood poor Gerda now, without shoes or gloves, in the
very middle of dreadful icy Finland.
She ran on as fast as she could. There then came a
whole regiment of snow-flakes, but they did not fall from
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above, and they were quite bright and shining from the
Aurora Borealis. The flakes ran along the ground, and the
nearer they came the larger they grew. Gerda well
remembered how large and strange the snow-flakes
appeared when she once saw them through a magnifyingglass;
but now they were large and terrific in another
manner—they were all alive. They were the outposts of
the Snow Queen. They had the most wondrous shapes;
some looked like large ugly porcupines; others like snakes
knotted together, with their heads sticking out; and others,
again, like small fat bears, with the hair standing on end:
all were of dazzling whiteness—all were living snowflakes.
Little Gerda repeat~d the Lord’s Prayer. The cold was
so intense that she could see her own breath, which came
like smoke out of her mouth. It grew thicker and thicker,
and took the form of little angels, that grew more and
more when they touched the earth. All had helms on their
heads, and lances and shields in their hands; they increased
in numbers; and when Gerda had finished the Lord’s
Prayer, she was surrounded by a whole legion. They thrust
at the horrid snow-flakes with their spears, so that they
flew into a thousand pieces; and little Gerda walked on
bravely and in security. The angels patted her hands and
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feet; and then she felt the cold less, and went on quickly
towards the palace of the Snow Queen.
But now we shall see how Kay fared. He never thought
of Gerda, and least of all that she was standing before the
palace.
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SEVENTH STORY. What Took Place in the
Palace of the Snow Queen, and what
Happened Afterward
The walls of the palace were of driving snow, and the
windows and doors of cutting winds. There were more
than a hundred halls there, according as the snow was
driven by the winds. The largest was many miles in extent;
all were lighted up by the powerful Aurora Borealis, and
all were so large, so empty, so icy cold, and so resplendent!
Mirth never reigned there; there was never even a little
bear-ball, with the storm for music, while the polar bears
went on their hindlegs and showed off their steps. Never a
little tea-party of white young lady foxes; vast, cold, and
empty were the halls of the Snow Queen. The northernlights
shone with such precision that one could tell exactly
when they were at their highest or lowest degree of
brightness. In the middle of the empty, endless hall of
snow, was a frozen lake; it was cracked in a thousand
pieces, but each piece was so like the other, that it seemed
the work of a cunning artificer. In the middle of this lake
sat the Snow Queen when she was at home; and then she
said she was sitting in the Mirror of Understanding, and
that this was the only one and the best thing in the world.
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Little Kay was quite blue, yes nearly black with cold;
but he did not observe it, for she had kissed away all
feeling of cold from his body, and his heart was a lump of
ice. He was dragging along some pointed flat pieces of ice,
which he laid together in all possible ways, for he wanted
to make something with them; just as we have little flat
pieces of wood to make geometrical figures with, called
the Chinese Puzzle. Kay made all sorts of figures, the most
complicated, for it was an ice-puzzle for the
understanding. In his eyes the figures were extraordinarily
beautiful, and of the utmost importance; for the bit of glass
which was in his eye caused this. He found whole figures
which represented a written word; but he never could
manage to represent just the word he wanted—that word
was ‘eternity"; and the Snow Queen had said, ‘If you can
discover that figure, you shall be your own master, and I
will make you a present of the whole world and a pair of
new skates.’ But he could not find it out.
’ am going now to warm lands,’ said the Snow Queen.
‘I must have a look down into the black caldrons.’ It was
the volcanoes Vesuvius and Etna that she meant. ‘I will
just give them a coating of white, for that is as it ought to
be; besides, it is good for the oranges and the grapes.’ And
then away she flew, and Kay sat quite alone in the empty
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halls of ice that were miles long, and looked at the blocks
of ice, and thought and thought till his skull was almost
cracked. There he sat quite benumbed and motionless;
one would have imagined he was frozen to death.
Suddenly little Gerda stepped through the great portal
into the palace. The gate was formed of cutting winds; but
Gerda repeated her evening prayer, and the winds were
laid as though they slept; and the little maiden entered the
vast, empty, cold halls. There she beheld Kay: she
recognised him, flew to embrace him, and cried out, her
arms firmly holding him the while, ‘Kay, sweet little Kay!
Have I then found you at last?’
But he sat quite still, benumbed and cold. Then little
Gerda shed burning tears; and they fell on his bosom, they
penetrated to his heart, they thawed the lumps of ice, and
consumed the splinters of the looking-glass; he looked at
her, and she sang the hymn:
‘The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet, And
angels descend there the children to greet.’
Hereupon Kay burst into tears; he wept so much that
the splinter rolled out of his eye, and he recognised her,
and shouted, ‘Gerda, sweet little Gerda! Where have you
been so long? And where have I been?’ He looked round
him. ‘How cold it is here!’ said he. ‘How empty and cold!’
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And he held fast by Gerda, who laughed and wept for joy.
It was so beautiful, that even the blocks of ice danced
about for joy; and when they were tired and laid
themselves down, they formed exactly the letters which
the Snow Queen had told him to find out; so now he was
his own master, and he would have the whole world and a
pair of new skates into the bargain.
Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they grew quite blooming;
she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed
his hands and feet, and he was again well and merry. The
Snow Queen might come back as soon as she liked; there
stood his discharge written in resplendent masses of ice.
They took each other by the hand, and wandered forth
out of the large hall; they talked of their old grandmother,
and of the roses upon the roof; and wherever they went,
the winds ceased raging, and the sun burst forth. And
when they reached the bush with the red berries, they
found the Reindeer waiting for them. He had brought
another, a young one, with him, whose udder was filled
with milk, which he gave to the little ones, and kissed
their lips. They then carried Kay and Gerda—first to the
Finland woman, where they warmed themselves in the
warm room, and learned what they were to do on their
journey home; and they went to the Lapland woman, who
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made some new clothes for them and repaired their
sledges.
The Reindeer and the young hind leaped along beside
them, and accompanied them to the boundary of the
country. Here the first vegetation peeped forth; here Kay
and Gerda took leave of the Lapland woman. ‘Farewell!
Farewell!’ they all said. And the first green buds appeared,
the first little birds began to chirrup; and out of the wood
came, riding on a magnificent horse, which Gerda knew
(it was one of the leaders in the golden carriage), a young
damsel with a bright-red cap on her head, and armed with
pistols. It was the little robber maiden, who, tired of being
at home, had determined to make a journey to the north;
and afterwards in another direction, if that did not please
her. She recognised Gerda immediately, and Gerda knew
her too. It was a joyful meeting.
‘You are a fine fellow for tramping about,’ said she to
little Kay; ‘I should like to know, faith, if you deserve that
one should run from one end of the world to the other for
your sake?’
But Gerda patted her cheeks, and inquired for the
Prince and Princess.
‘They are gone abroad,’ said the other.
‘But the Raven?’ asked little Gerda.
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‘Oh! The Raven is dead,’ she answered. ‘His tame
sweetheart is a widow, and wears a bit of black worsted
round her leg; she laments most piteously, but it’s all mere
talk and stuff! Now tell me what you’ve been doing and
how you managed to catch him.’
And Gerda and Kay both told their story.
And ‘Schnipp-schnapp-schnurre-basselurre,’ said the
robber maiden; and she took the hands of each, and
promised that if she should some day pass through the
town where they lived, she would come and visit them;
and then away she rode. Kay and Gerda took each other’s
hand: it was lovely spring weather, with abundance of
flowers and of verdure. The church-bells rang, and the
children recognised the high towers, and the large town; it
was that in which they dwelt. They entered and hastened
up to their grandmother’s room, where everything was
standing as formerly. The clock said ‘tick! tack!’ and the
finger moved round; but as they entered, they remarked
that they were now grown up. The roses on the leads
hung blooming in at the open window; there stood the
little children’s chairs, and Kay and Gerda sat down on
them, holding each other by the hand; they both had
forgotten the cold empty splendor of the Snow Queen, as
though it had been a dream. The grandmother sat in the
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bright sunshine, and read aloud from the Bible: ‘Unless ye
become as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of
heaven.’
And Kay and Gerda looked in each other’s eyes, and all
at once they understood the old hymn:
‘The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet, And
angels descend there the children to greet.’
There sat the two grown-up persons; grown-up, and
yet children; children at least in heart; and it was summertime;
summer, glorious summer!
THE LEAP-FROG
A Flea, a Grasshopper, and a Leap-frog once wanted to
see which could jump highest; and they invited the whole
world, and everybody else besides who chose to come to
see the festival. Three famous jumpers were they, as
everyone would say, when they all met together in the
room.
‘I will give my daughter to him who jumps highest,’
exclaimed the King; ‘for it is not so amusing where there
is no prize to jump for.’
The Flea was the first to step forward. He had exquisite
manners, and bowed to the company on all sides; for he
had noble blood, and was, moreover, accustomed to the
society of man alone; and that makes a great difference.
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Then came the Grasshopper. He was considerably
heavier, but he was well-mannered, and wore a green
uniform, which he had by right of birth; he said,
moreover, that he belonged to a very ancient Egyptian
family, and that in the house where he then was, he was
thought much of. The fact was, he had been just brought
out of the fields, and put in a pasteboard house, three
stories high, all made of court-cards, with the colored side
inwards; and doors and windows cut out of the body of
the Queen of Hearts. ‘I sing so well,’ said he, ‘that sixteen
native grasshoppers who have chirped from infancy, and
yet got no house built of cards to live in, grew thinner
than they were before for sheer vexation when they heard
me.’
It was thus that the Flea and the Grasshopper gave an
account of themselves, and thought they were quite good
enough to marry a Princess.
The Leap-frog said nothing; but people gave it as their
opinion, that he therefore thought the more; and when
the housedog snuffed at him with his nose, he confessed
the Leap-frog was of good family. The old councillor,
who had had three orders given him to make him hold his
tongue, asserted that the Leap-frog was a prophet; for that
one could see on his back, if there would be a severe or
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mild winter, and that was what one could not see even on
the back of the man who writes the almanac.
‘I say nothing, it is true,’ exclaimed the King; ‘but I
have my own opinion, notwithstanding.’
Now the trial was to take place. The Flea jumped so
high that nobody could see where he went to; so they all
asserted he had not jumped at all; and that was
dishonorable.
The Grasshopper jumped only half as high; but he
leaped into the King’s face, who said that was illmannered.
The Leap-frog stood still for a long time lost in
thought; it was believed at last he would not jump at all.
‘I only hope he is not unwell,’ said the house-dog;
when, pop! he made a jump all on one side into the lap of
the Princess, who was sitting on a little golden stool close
by.
Hereupon the King said, ‘There is nothing above my
daughter; therefore to bound up to her is the highest jump
that can be made; but for this, one must possess
understanding, and the Leap-frog has shown that he has
understanding. He is brave and intellectual.’
And so he won the Princess.
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‘It’s all the same to me,’ said the Flea. ‘She may have
the old Leap-frog, for all I care. I jumped the highest; but
in this world merit seldom meets its reward. A fine
exterior is what people look at now-a-days.’
The Flea then went into foreign service, where, it is
said, he was killed.
The Grasshopper sat without on a green bank, and
reflected on worldly things; and he said too, ‘Yes, a fine
exterior is everything—a fine exterior is what people care
about.’ And then he began chirping his peculiar
melancholy song, from which we have taken this history;
and which may, very possibly, be all untrue, although it
does stand here printed in black and white.
THE ELDERBUSH
Once upon a time there was a little boy who had taken
cold. He had gone out and got his feet wet; though
nobody could imagine how it had happened, for it was
quite dry weather. So his mother undressed him, put him
to bed, and had the tea-pot brought in, to make him a
good cup of Elderflower tea. Just at that moment the
merry old man came in who lived up a-top of the house
all alone; for he had neither wife nor children—but he
liked children very much, and knew so many fairy tales,
that it was quite delightful.
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‘Now drink your tea,’ said the boy’s mother; ‘then,
perhaps, you may hear a fairy tale.’
‘If I had but something new to tell,’ said the old man.
‘But how did the child get his feet wet?’
‘That is the very thing that nobody can make out,’ said
his mother.
‘Am I to hear a fairy tale?’ asked the little boy.
‘Yes, if you can tell me exactly—for I must know that
first—how deep the gutter is in the little street opposite,
that you pass through in going to school.’
‘Just up to the middle of my boot,’ said the child; ‘but
then I must go into the deep hole.’
‘Ali, ah! That’s where the wet feet came from,’ said the
old man. ‘I ought now to tell you a story; but I don’t
know any more.’
‘You can make one in a moment,’ said the little boy.
‘My mother says that all you look at can be turned into a
fairy tale: and that you can find a story in everything.’
‘Yes, but such tales and stories are good for nothing.
The right sort come of themselves; they tap at my
forehead and say, ‘Here we are.’’
‘Won’t there be a tap soon?’ asked the little boy. And
his mother laughed, put some Elder-flowers in the tea-pot,
and poured boiling water upon them.
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‘Do tell me something! Pray do!’
‘Yes, if a fairy tale would come of its own accord; but
they are proud and haughty, and come only when they
choose. Stop!’ said he, all on a sudden. ‘I have it! Pay
attention! There is one in the tea-pot!’
And the little boy looked at the tea-pot. The cover rose
more and more; and the Elder-flowers came forth so fresh
and white, and shot up long branches. Out of the spout
even did they spread themselves on all sides, and grew
larger and larger; it was a splendid Elderbush, a whole tree;
and it reached into the very bed, and pushed the curtains
aside. How it bloomed! And what an odour! In the middle
of the bush sat a friendly-looking old woman in a most
strange dress. It was quite green, like the leaves of the
elder, and was trimmed with large white Elder-flowers; so
that at first one could not tell whether it was a stuff, or a
natural green and real flowers.
‘What’s that woman’s name?’ asked the little boy.
‘The Greeks and Romans,’ said the old man, ‘called her
a Dryad; but that we do not understand. The people who
live in the New Booths* have a much better name for
her; they call her ‘old Granny’—and she it is to whom you
are to pay attention. Now listen, and look at the beautiful
Elderbush.
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* A row of buildings for seamen in Copenhagen.
‘Just such another large blooming Elder Tree stands
near the New Booths. It grew there in the corner of a
little miserable court-yard; and under it sat, of an
afternoon, in the most splendid sunshine, two old people;
an old, old seaman, and his old, old wife. They had greatgrand-
children, and were soon to celebrate the fiftieth
anniversary of their marriage; but they could not exactly
recollect the date: and old Granny sat in the tree, and
looked as pleased as now. ‘I know the date,’ said she; but
those below did not hear her, for they were talking about
old times.
‘‘Yes, can’t you remember when we were very little,’
said the old seaman, ‘and ran and played about? It was the
very same court-yard where we now are, and we stuck
slips in the ground, and made a garden.’
‘‘I remember it well,’ said the old woman; ‘I remember
it quite well. We watered the slips, and one of them was
an Elderbush. It took root, put forth green shoots, and
grew up to be the large tree under which we old folks are
now sitting.’