Page:Hans Andersen's fairy tales (Robinson).djvu/338



HERE was once an old poet, such a good, honest old poet! He was sitting alone in his own little room on a very stormy evening; the wind was roaring without, and the rain poured down in torrents. But the old man sat cosily by his warm stove, the fire was blazing brightly, and some apples were roasting in front of it.

'Those poor people who have no roof to shelter them to-night will, most assuredly, not have a dry thread left on their skin,' said the kind-hearted old man.

'Oh, open the door! open the door! I am so cold, and quite wet through besides open the door!' cried a voice from without. The voice was like a child's, and seemed half-choked with sobs. 'Rap, rap, rap!' it went on knocking at the door, whilst the rain still kept streaming down from the clouds, and the wind rattled among the window-panes.

'Poor thing!' said the old poet; and he arose and opened the door. There stood a little boy, almost naked; the water trickled down from his long flaxen hair; he was shivering with cold, and had he been left much longer out in the street, he must certainly have perished in the storm.

'Poor boy!' said the old poet again, taking him by the hand, and leading him into his room. 'Come to me, and we'll soon make thee warm again, and I will give thee some wine, and some roasted apples for thy supper, my pretty child!'

And, of a truth, the boy was exceedingly pretty. His eyes 286