Part 9 (1/2)

”Ah, good day, good day!” It was two old birds from the nest, and a little one besides, of the family. ”That we should meet here! It is a very grand sort of place, but there is nothing to eat here: that is 'the beautiful!' Chirrup!”

And many persons advanced from the side apartments, where the magnificent marble figures stood, and approached the grave that hid the great master who had formed the marble figures. All stood with, glorified countenances around Thorwaldsen's grave, and some picked up the shed rose-leaves and carefully guarded them. They had come from far--one from mighty England, others from Germany and France: the most lovely lady gathered one of the roses and hid it in her bosom. Then the sparrows thought that the roses governed here, and that the whole house had been built on account of them. Now, this seemed to them, at all events, too much; however, as it was for the roses that the persons showed all their love, they would remain no longer. ”Chirrup!”

said they, and swept the floor with their tails, and winked with one eye at the roses. They had not looked at them long before they convinced themselves that they were their old neighbors. And they really were so. The painter who had drawn the rose-bush beside the burned-down house, had afterwards obtained permission to dig it up, and had given it to the architect--for more beautiful roses had never been seen--and the architect had planted it on Thorwaldsen's grave, where it bloomed as a symbol of the beautiful, and gave up its red fragrant leaves to be carried to distant lands as a remembrance.

”Have you got an appointment here in town?” asked the sparrows.

And the roses nodded: they recognised their brown neighbors, and rejoiced to see them again. ”How delightful it is to live and to bloom, to see old friends again, and every day to look on happy faces!

It is as if every day were a holy-day.”

”Chirrup!” said the sparrows. ”Yes, it is in truth our old neighbors; their origin--from the pond--is still quite clear in our memory!

Chirrup! How they have risen in the world! Yes, Fortune favors some while they sleep! Ah! there is a withered leaf that I see quite plainly.” And they pecked at it so long till the leaf fell off; and the tree stood there greener and more fresh, the roses gave forth their fragrance in the suns.h.i.+ne over Thorwaldsen's grave, with whose immortal name, they were united.

THE DARNING-NEEDLE.

There was once upon a time a darning needle, that imagined itself so fine, that at last it fancied it was a sewing-needle.

”Now, pay attention, and hold me firmly!” said the darning-needle to the fingers that were taking it out. ”Do not let me fall! If I fall on the ground, I shall certainly never be found again, so fine am I.”

”Pretty well as to that,” answered the fingers; and so saying, they took hold of it by the body.

”Look, I come with a train!” said the darning-needle, drawing a long thread after it, but there was no knot to the thread.

The fingers directed the needle against an old pair of shoes belonging to the cook. The upper-leather was torn, and it was now to be sewed together.

”That is vulgar work,” said the needle; ”I can never get through it. I shall break! I shall break!” And it really did break. ”Did I not say so?” said the needle; ”I am too delicate.”

”Now it's good for nothing,” said the fingers, but they were obliged to hold it still; the cook dropped sealing-wax upon it, and pinned her neckerchief together with it.

”Well, now I am a breast-pin,” said the darning-needle. ”I was sure I should be raised to honor: if one is something, one is sure to get on!” and at the same time it laughed inwardly; for one can never see when a darning-needle laughs. So there it sat now as proudly as in a state-carriage, and looked around on every side.

”May I take the liberty to inquire if you are of gold?” asked the needle of a pin that was its neighbor. ”You have a splendid exterior, and a head of your own, but it is small, however. You must do what you can to grow, for it is not every one that is bedropped with sealing-wax!” And then the darning-needle drew itself up so high that it fell out of the kerchief, and tumbled right into the sink, which the cook was at that moment rinsing out.

”Now we are going on our travels,” said the needle. ”If only I do not get lost!” But it really did get lost.

”I am too delicate for this world!” said the needle, as it lay in the sink, ”but I know who I am, and that is always a consolation;” and the darning-needle maintained its proud demeanor, and lost none of its good-humor.

And all sorts of things swam over it--shavings, straws, and sc.r.a.ps of old newspapers.

”Only look how they sail by,” said the needle. ”They do not know what is hidden below them! I stick fast here: here I sit. Look! there goes a shaving: it thinks of nothing in the world but of itself--but of a shaving! There drifts a straw; and how it tacks about, how it turns round! Think of something else besides yourself, or else perhaps you'll run against a stone! There swims a bit of a newspaper. What's written there is long ago forgotten, and yet out it spreads itself, as if it were mighty important! I sit here patient and still: I know who I am, and that I shall remain after all!”

One day there lay something close beside the needle. It glittered so splendidly, that the needle thought it must be a diamond: but it was only a bit of a broken bottle, and because it glittered the darning-needle addressed it, and introduced itself to the other as a breast-pin.

”You are, no doubt, a diamond?”