Page:Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales (1888).djvu/430

 lively, and the little waxen angel at the top spread out his wings of gold-leaf, and fly down from his green perch. He will kiss every one in the room, great and small; yes, even the poor children who stand in the passage, or out in the street singing a carol about the ‘Star of Bethlehem.’”

“Well, now the coach may drive away,” said the sentry; “we have the whole twelve. Let the horses be put up.”

“First, let all the twelve come to me,” said the captain on duty, “one after another. The passports I will keep here. Each of them is available for one month; when that has passed, I shall write the behaviour of each on his passport. Mr. January, have the goodness to come here.” And Mr. January stepped forward.

When a year has passed, I think I shall be able to tell you what the twelve passengers have brought to you, to me, and to all of us. Now I do not know, and probably even they don’t know themselves, for we live in strange times.

 

once lived an old poet, a truly good and brave man. One evening, as he was seated alone in his room, a dreadful storm arose, the wind blew, and the rain fell from the heavens in torrents. But the old poet in his room felt quite warm and comfortable, as he sat by the stove, while the bright flames glowed, and the apples which were roasting hissed pleasantly.

“Those poor creatures who are out in the streets in this dreadful storm must be wet through,” he said to himself, sorrowfully, for he was a truly good poet.

“Oh, please let me in! I am so cold, and wet through!” exclaimed a soft, childish voice.

People heard the cry, and would have knocked at the door, but the rain fell in torrents, and the wind shook the windows so that no knocking could be heard.

“Poor little chap!” cried the poet, when he heard the voice, and, rising as he spoke, he went and opened the door.

There stood a little boy nearly naked, and with long, fair locks, from which the rain dripped.

The boy shivered with cold, and, indeed, if he had not found shelter, the poet thought he must have died.

“Poor child,” said the good man, taking him by the hand, “come in,