THE BRAVE TIN SOLDIER

　　NEAR the grass-covered rampart which encircles Copenhagen

　　lies a great red house. Balsams and other flowers greet us

　　from the long rows of windows in the house, whose interior is

　　sufficiently poverty-stricken; and poor and old are the people

　　who inhabit it. The building is the Warton Almshouse.

　　Look! at the window there leans an old maid. She plucks

　　the withered1 leaf from the balsam, and looks at the

　　grass-covered rampart, on which many children are playing.

　　What is the old maid thinking of? A whole life drama is

　　unfolding itself before her inward gaze.

　　"The poor little children, how happy they are- how merrily

　　they play and romp2 together! What red cheeks and what angels'

　　eyes! but they have no shoes nor stockings. They dance on the

　　green rampart, just on the place where, according to the old

　　story, the ground always sank in, and where a sportive,

　　frolicsome child had been lured3 by means of flowers, toys and

　　sweetmeats into an open grave ready dug for it, and which was

　　afterwards closed over the child; and from that moment, the

　　old story says, the ground gave way no longer, the mound

　　remained firm and fast, and was quickly covered with the green

　　turf. The little people who now play on that spot know nothing

　　of the old tale, else would they fancy they heard a child

　　crying deep below the earth, and the dewdrops on each blade of

　　grass would be to them tears of woe4. Nor do they know anything

　　of the Danish King who here, in the face of the coming foe,

　　took an oath before all his trembling courtiers that he would

　　hold out with the citizens of his capital, and die here in his

　　nest; they know nothing of the men who have fought here, or of

　　the women who from here have drenched5 with boiling water the

　　enemy, clad in white, and 'biding6 in the snow to surprise the

　　city.

　　"No! the poor little ones are playing with light, childish

　　spirits. Play on, play on, thou little maiden7! Soon the years

　　will come- yes, those glorious years. The priestly hands have

　　been laid on the candidates for confirmation8; hand in hand

　　they walk on the green rampart. Thou hast a white frock on; it

　　has cost thy mother much labor9, and yet it is only cut down

　　for thee out of an old larger dress! You will also wear a red

　　shawl; and what if it hang too far down? People will only see

　　how large, how very large it is. You are thinking of your

　　dress, and of the Giver of all good- so glorious is it to

　　wander on the green rampart!

　　"And the years roll by; they have no lack of dark days,

　　but you have your cheerful young spirit, and you have gained a

　　friend- you know not how. You met, oh, how often! You walk

　　together on the rampart in the fresh spring, on the high days

　　and holidays, when all the world come out to walk upon the

　　ramparts, and all the bells of the church steeples seem to be

　　singing a song of praise for the coming spring.

　　"Scarcely have the violets come forth10, but there on the

　　rampart, just opposite the beautiful Castle of Rosenberg,

　　there is a tree bright with the first green buds. Every year

　　this tree sends forth fresh green shoots. Alas11! It is not so

　　with the human heart! Dark mists, more in number than those

　　that cover the northern skies, cloud the human heart. Poor

　　child! thy friend's bridal chamber12 is a black coffin13, and thou

　　becomest an old maid. From the almshouse window, behind the

　　balsams, thou shalt look on the merry children at play, and

　　shalt see thine own history renewed."

　　And that is the life drama that passes before the old maid

　　while she looks out upon the rampart, the green, sunny

　　rampart, where the children, with their red cheeks and bare

　　shoeless feet, are rejoicing merrily, like the other free

　　little birds.

　　THE END