THE WILL-O-THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN, SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN [0]
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE WILL-O-THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN,
SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN
by Hans Christian Andersen
THERE was a man who once knew many stories, but they had slipped
away from him- so he said. The Story that used to visit him of its own
accord no longer came and knocked at his door. And why did it come
no longer? It is true enough that for days and years the man had not
thought of it, had not expected it to come and knock; and if he had
expected it, it would certainly not have come; for without there was
war, and within was the care and sorrow that war brings with it.
The stork and the swallows came back from their long journey,
for they thought of no danger; and, behold, when they arrived, the
nest was burnt, the habitations of men were burnt, the hedges were all
in disorder, and everything seemed gone, and the enemy's horses were
stamping in the old graves. Those were hard, gloomy times, but they
came to an end.
And now they were past and gone- so people said; yet no Story came
and knocked at the door, or gave any tidings of its presence.
"I suppose it must be dead, or gone away with many other
things," said the man.
But the story never dies. And more than a whole year went by,
and he longed- oh, so very much!- for the Story.
"I wonder if the Story will ever come back again and knock?"
And he remembered it so well in all the various forms in which
it had come to him, sometimes young and charming, like spring
itself, sometimes as a beautiful maiden, with a wreath of thyme in her
hair, and a beechen branch in her hand, and with eyes that gleamed
like deep woodland lakes in the bright sunshine.
Sometimes it had come to him in the guise of a peddler, and had
opened its box and let silver ribbon come fluttering out, with
verses and inscriptions of old remembrances.
But it was most charming of all when it came as an old
grandmother, with silvery hair, and such large, sensible eyes. She
knew so well how to tell about the oldest times, long before the
princesses spun with the golden spindles, and the dragons lay
outside the castles, guarding them. She told with such an air of
truth, that black spots danced before the eyes of all who heard her,
and the floor became black with human blood; terrible to see and to
hear, and yet so entertaining, because such a long time had passed
since it all happened.
"Will it ever knock at my door again?" said the man, and he
gazed at the door, so that black spots came before his eyes and upon
the floor; he did not know if it was blood, or mourning crape from the
dark heavy days.
And as he sat thus, the thought came upon him whether the Story
might not have hidden itself, like the princess in the old tale. And
he would now go in search of it; if he found it, it would beam in
new splendor, lovelier than ever.
"Who knows? Perhaps it has hidden itself in the straw that
balances on the margin of the well. Carefully, carefully! Perhaps it
lies hidden in a certain flower- that flower in one of the great books
on the book-shelf."
And the man went and opened one of the newest books, to gain
information on this point; but there was no flower to be found.
There he read about Holger Danske; and the man read that the tale
had been invented and put together by a monk in France, that it was
a romance, "translated into Danish and printed in that language;" that
Holger Danske had never really lived, and consequently could never
come again, as we have sung, and have been so glad to believe. And
William Tell was treated just like Holger Danske. These were all
only myths- nothing on which we could depend; and yet it is all
written in a very learned book.
"Well, I shall believe what I believe!" said the man. "There grows
no plantain where no foot has trod."
And he
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE WILL-O-THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN,
SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN
by Hans Christian Andersen
THERE was a man who once knew many stories, but they had slipped
away from him- so he said. The Story that used to visit him of its own
accord no longer came and knocked at his door. And why did it come
no longer? It is true enough that for days and years the man had not
thought of it, had not expected it to come and knock; and if he had
expected it, it would certainly not have come; for without there was
war, and within was the care and sorrow that war brings with it.
The stork and the swallows came back from their long journey,
for they thought of no danger; and, behold, when they arrived, the
nest was burnt, the habitations of men were burnt, the hedges were all
in disorder, and everything seemed gone, and the enemy's horses were
stamping in the old graves. Those were hard, gloomy times, but they
came to an end.
And now they were past and gone- so people said; yet no Story came
and knocked at the door, or gave any tidings of its presence.
"I suppose it must be dead, or gone away with many other
things," said the man.
But the story never dies. And more than a whole year went by,
and he longed- oh, so very much!- for the Story.
"I wonder if the Story will ever come back again and knock?"
And he remembered it so well in all the various forms in which
it had come to him, sometimes young and charming, like spring
itself, sometimes as a beautiful maiden, with a wreath of thyme in her
hair, and a beechen branch in her hand, and with eyes that gleamed
like deep woodland lakes in the bright sunshine.
Sometimes it had come to him in the guise of a peddler, and had
opened its box and let silver ribbon come fluttering out, with
verses and inscriptions of old remembrances.
But it was most charming of all when it came as an old
grandmother, with silvery hair, and such large, sensible eyes. She
knew so well how to tell about the oldest times, long before the
princesses spun with the golden spindles, and the dragons lay
outside the castles, guarding them. She told with such an air of
truth, that black spots danced before the eyes of all who heard her,
and the floor became black with human blood; terrible to see and to
hear, and yet so entertaining, because such a long time had passed
since it all happened.
"Will it ever knock at my door again?" said the man, and he
gazed at the door, so that black spots came before his eyes and upon
the floor; he did not know if it was blood, or mourning crape from the
dark heavy days.
And as he sat thus, the thought came upon him whether the Story
might not have hidden itself, like the princess in the old tale. And
he would now go in search of it; if he found it, it would beam in
new splendor, lovelier than ever.
"Who knows? Perhaps it has hidden itself in the straw that
balances on the margin of the well. Carefully, carefully! Perhaps it
lies hidden in a certain flower- that flower in one of the great books
on the book-shelf."
And the man went and opened one of the newest books, to gain
information on this point; but there was no flower to be found.
There he read about Holger Danske; and the man read that the tale
had been invented and put together by a monk in France, that it was
a romance, "translated into Danish and printed in that language;" that
Holger Danske had never really lived, and consequently could never
come again, as we have sung, and have been so glad to believe. And
William Tell was treated just like Holger Danske. These were all
only myths- nothing on which we could depend; and yet it is all
written in a very learned book.
"Well, I shall believe what I believe!" said the man. "There grows
no plantain where no foot has trod."
And he