We are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.
Continue reading →Fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen
The windmill
A windmill stood upon the hill, proud to look at, and it was proud too.
Continue reading →In the duck yard
A duck arrived from Portugal. Some people said she came from Spain, but that doesn’t really matter. She was called the Portuguese; she laid eggs, and was killed and dressed and cooked; that’s the story of her life. But all the ducklings that were hatched from her eggs were also called Portuguese, and there’s some distinction in that. At last there was only one left of her whole family in the duck yard – a yard to which the hens also had access, and where the cock strutted about with endless arrogance.
Continue reading →Ole the tower-keeper
“In the world it’s always going up and down; and now I can’t go up any higher!” So said Ole the tower-keeper. “Most people have to try both the ups and the downs; and, rightly considered, we all get to be watchmen at last, and look down upon life from a height.”
Continue reading →Ib and little Christina
In the forest that extends from the banks of the Gudenau, in North Jutland, a long way into the country, and not far from the clear stream, rises a great ridge of land, which stretches through the wood like a wall.
Continue reading →The story of the year
It was near the end of January, and a terrible fall of snow was pelting down, and whirling through the streets and lanes; the windows were plastered with snow on the outside, snow fell in masses from the roofs. Every one seemed in a great hurry; they ran, they flew, fell into each other’s arms, holding fast for a moment as long as they could stand safely. Coaches and horses looked as if they had been frosted with sugar.
Continue reading →The old street lamp
Did you ever hear the story of the old street lamp? It is not remarkably interesting, but for once in a way you may as well listen to it. It was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many years of service, and now was to retire with a pension. It was this evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street.
Continue reading →The Nightingale
In China, you know, the emperor is a Chinese, and all those about him are Chinamen also. The story I am going t tell you happened a great many years ago, so it is well to hear it now before it is forgotten.
Continue reading →The naughty boy
A long time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet. As he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without, and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney-comer, where the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed.
Continue reading →What old Johanne told
The wind whistles in the old willow tree. It is as if one were hearing a song; the wind sings it; the tree tells it. If you do not understand it, then ask old Johanne in the poor house; she knows about it; she was born here in the parish.
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