She could say nomore.
  Then Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candlewhich he found in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over thewretched dwelling. Ib looked at the little girl, and thought ofChristina in her young days. For her sake, could he not love thischild, who was a stranger to him? As he thus reflected, the dyingwoman opened her eyes, and gazed at him. Did she recognize him? Henever knew; for not another word escaped her lips.
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  In the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, andbeneath the ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted andwhitewashed. The air was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on theheath; the autumn winds whirled the yellow leaves towards theboatman's hut, in which strangers dwelt; but the little farm stoodsafely sheltered beneath the tall trees and the high ridge. The turfblazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, thesparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tonesfrom the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring. Allwas life and joy. Little Christina sat on Ib's knee. Ib was to herboth father and mother; her own parents had vanished from hermemory, as a dream-picture vanishes alike from childhood and age. Ib'shouse was well and prettily furnished; for he was a prosperous mannow, while the mother of the little girl rested in the churchyard atCopenhagen, where she had died in poverty. Ib had money now- moneywhich had come to him out of the black earth; and he had Christina forhis own, after all.
  THE END.
  1872
  FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
  IN A THOUSAND YEARS
  by Hans Christian Andersen
  YES, in a thousand years people will fly on the wings of steamthrough the air, over the ocean! The young inhabitants of America willbecome visitors of old Europe. They will come over to see themonuments and the great cities, which will then be in ruins, just aswe in our time make pilgrimages to the tottering splendors of SouthernAsia. In a thousand years they will come!
  The Thames, the Danube, and the Rhine still roll their course,Mont Blanc stands firm with its snow-capped summit, and the NorthernLights gleam over the land of the North; but generation aftergeneration has become dust, whole rows of the mighty of the moment areforgotten, like those who already slumber under the hill on whichthe rich trader, whose ground it is, has built a bench, on which hecan sit and look out across his waving corn fields.
  "To Europe!" cry the young sons of America; "to the land of ourancestors, the glorious land of monuments and fancy- to Europe!"
  The ship of the air comes. It is crowded with passengers, forthe transit is quicker than by sea. The electro-magnetic wire underthe ocean has already telegraphed the number of the aerial caravan.Europe is in sight. It is the coast of Ireland that they see, butthe passengers are still asleep; they will not be called till they areexactly over England. There they will first step on European shore, inthe land of Shakespeare, as the educated call it; in the land ofpolitics, the land of machines, as it is called by others.
  Here they stay a whole day. That is all the time the busy race candevote to the whole of England and Scotland. Then the journey iscontinued through the tunnel under the English Channel, to France, theland of Charlemagne and Napoleon. Moliere is named, the learned mentalk of the classic school of remote antiquity. There is rejoicing andshouting for the names of heroes, poets, and men of science, whomour time does not know, but who will be born after our time inParis, the centre of Europe, and elsewhere.
  The air steamboat flies over the country whence Columbus wentforth, where Cortez was born, and where Calderon sang dramas insounding verse. Beautiful black-eyed women live still in theblooming valleys, and the oldest songs speak of the Cid and theAlhambra.
  Then through the air, over the sea, to Italy, where once layold, everlasting Rome. It has vanished!