THE OLD HOUSE [3]
had fallen
through a crack between the boards, and lay there now in an open
grave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week
passed, and many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite
frozen, so the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes, and rub
a hole to peep through at the old house. Snow drifts were lying in all
the scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with
snow as if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was home, for the
old man was dead. In the evening, a hearse stopped at the door, and
the old man in his coffin was placed in it. He was to be taken to
the country to be buried there in his own grave; so they carried him
away; no one followed him, for all his friends were dead; and the
little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as the hearse moved away with
it. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and
from his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the
pictures of old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with the long
ears, the old chairs, and the cup-boards. Some were taken one way,
some another. Her portrait, which had been bought at the picture
dealer's, went back again to his shop, and there it remained, for no
one seemed to know her, or to care for the old picture. In the spring;
they began to pull the house itself down; people called it complete
rubbish. From the street could be seen the room in which the walls
were covered with leather, ragged and torn, and the green in the
balcony hung straggling over the beams; they pulled it down quickly,
for it looked ready to fall, and at last it was cleared away
altogether. "What a good riddance," said the neighbors' houses. Very
shortly, a fine new house was built farther back from the road; it had
lofty windows and smooth walls, but in front, on the spot where the
old house really stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines
grew up over the neighboring walls; in front of the garden were
large iron railings and a great gate, which looked very stately.
People used to stop and peep through the railings. The sparrows
assembled in dozens upon the wild vines, and chattered all together as
loud as they could, but not about the old house; none of them could
remember it, for many years had passed by, so many indeed, that the
little boy was now a man, and a really good man too, and his parents
were very proud of him. He was just married, and had come, with his
young wife, to reside in the new house with the garden in front of it,
and now he stood there by her side while she planted a field flower
that she thought very pretty. She was planting it herself with her
little hands, and pressing down the earth with her fingers. "Oh
dear, what was that?" she exclaimed, as something pricked her. Out
of the soft earth something was sticking up. It was- only think!- it
was really the tin soldier, the very same which had been lost up in
the old man's room, and had been hidden among old wood and rubbish for
a long time, till it sunk into the earth, where it must have been
for many years. And the young wife wiped the soldier, first with a
green leaf, and then with her fine pocket-handkerchief, that smelt
of such beautiful perfume. And the tin soldier felt as if he was
recovering from a fainting fit. "Let me see him," said the young
man, and then he smiled and shook his head, and said, "It can scarcely
be the same, but it reminds me of something that happened to one of my
tin soldiers when I was a little boy." And then he told his wife about
the old house and the old man, and of the tin soldier which he had
sent across, because he thought the old man was lonely; and he related
the story so clearly that tears came into the eyes of the young wife
for the old house and the old man. "It is very likely that this is
really the same soldier," said she, and I will take care of him, and
always remember what you have told me; but some day you must show me
the old man's grave."
"I don't
through a crack between the boards, and lay there now in an open
grave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week
passed, and many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite
frozen, so the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes, and rub
a hole to peep through at the old house. Snow drifts were lying in all
the scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with
snow as if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was home, for the
old man was dead. In the evening, a hearse stopped at the door, and
the old man in his coffin was placed in it. He was to be taken to
the country to be buried there in his own grave; so they carried him
away; no one followed him, for all his friends were dead; and the
little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as the hearse moved away with
it. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and
from his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the
pictures of old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with the long
ears, the old chairs, and the cup-boards. Some were taken one way,
some another. Her portrait, which had been bought at the picture
dealer's, went back again to his shop, and there it remained, for no
one seemed to know her, or to care for the old picture. In the spring;
they began to pull the house itself down; people called it complete
rubbish. From the street could be seen the room in which the walls
were covered with leather, ragged and torn, and the green in the
balcony hung straggling over the beams; they pulled it down quickly,
for it looked ready to fall, and at last it was cleared away
altogether. "What a good riddance," said the neighbors' houses. Very
shortly, a fine new house was built farther back from the road; it had
lofty windows and smooth walls, but in front, on the spot where the
old house really stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines
grew up over the neighboring walls; in front of the garden were
large iron railings and a great gate, which looked very stately.
People used to stop and peep through the railings. The sparrows
assembled in dozens upon the wild vines, and chattered all together as
loud as they could, but not about the old house; none of them could
remember it, for many years had passed by, so many indeed, that the
little boy was now a man, and a really good man too, and his parents
were very proud of him. He was just married, and had come, with his
young wife, to reside in the new house with the garden in front of it,
and now he stood there by her side while she planted a field flower
that she thought very pretty. She was planting it herself with her
little hands, and pressing down the earth with her fingers. "Oh
dear, what was that?" she exclaimed, as something pricked her. Out
of the soft earth something was sticking up. It was- only think!- it
was really the tin soldier, the very same which had been lost up in
the old man's room, and had been hidden among old wood and rubbish for
a long time, till it sunk into the earth, where it must have been
for many years. And the young wife wiped the soldier, first with a
green leaf, and then with her fine pocket-handkerchief, that smelt
of such beautiful perfume. And the tin soldier felt as if he was
recovering from a fainting fit. "Let me see him," said the young
man, and then he smiled and shook his head, and said, "It can scarcely
be the same, but it reminds me of something that happened to one of my
tin soldiers when I was a little boy." And then he told his wife about
the old house and the old man, and of the tin soldier which he had
sent across, because he thought the old man was lonely; and he related
the story so clearly that tears came into the eyes of the young wife
for the old house and the old man. "It is very likely that this is
really the same soldier," said she, and I will take care of him, and
always remember what you have told me; but some day you must show me
the old man's grave."
"I don't