Page:The fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen (c1899).djvu/243

 placed a small pot of beer on the stove, to warm it for him. And the old man sat and rocked the cradle, while the mother sat on a chair beside him, and looked at her sick child, who was breathing so heavily, and took hold of its little hand.

"You think that I shall preserve him, do you not?" asked she. "An all-merciful God will surely not take him from me."

The old man—who was no other than Death—nodded his head so oddly, that it might just as well have stood for yes as no. And the mother cast down her eyes, while tears rolled down her cheeks. Her head felt so heavy, for she had never closed her eyes for three days and three nights, that she now fell asleep, but only for a minute, and then she got up and shivered with cold. "How is this?" asked she, looking all about her. But the old man was gone, and her little child was gone; he had evidently taken it with him. And the old clock in the corner began to rattle—the heavy leaden weights fell to the ground:—whirr! and the clock stood still.

But the poor mother rushed out of the house, calling after her child.

Outside in the snow sat a woman in long black clothes, who said: "Death has been into your room. I saw him hastening away with your little child. He strode faster than the wind: and he never brings back what he has taken."

"Only tell me which way he is gone," said the mother,—"tell me the way, and I'll find him."

"I know it," said the woman in black; "but before I tell you, you must first sing me all the songs you used to sing your child. I am fond of those songs. I have heard them before. I am Night; and I saw your tears flowing while you sang them."

I will sing them all—all," said the mother; "but don't detain me now, that I may overtake him, and get back my child."