repeated the Portuguese, "indeed you have, almost astender as the ducks in Portugal."
  "Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger," saidthe drake, that's the most important business. If one of our toys isbroken, why we have plenty more."
  THE END.
  1872
  FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
  THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA
  by Hans Christian Andersen
  ONCE upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry aprincess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled allover the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted.There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whetherthey were real ones. There was always something about them that wasnot as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he wouldhave liked very much to have a real princess.
  One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder andlightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knockingwas heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.
  It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But,good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look.The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into thetoes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said thatshe was a real princess.
  "Well, we'll soon find that out," thought the old queen. But shesaid nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off thebedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twentymattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down bedson top of the mattresses.
  On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning shewas asked how she had slept.
  "Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes allnight. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying onsomething hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It'shorrible!"
  Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had feltthe pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twentyeider-down beds.
  Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.
  So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had areal princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may stillbe seen, if no one has stolen it.
  There, that is a true story.
  THE END.
  1872
  FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
  THE PSYCHE
  by Hans Christian Andersen
  IN the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star,the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall,as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seenthere and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world.Let us hear one of his stories.
  "A short time ago"- the Star's "short time ago" is called amongmen "centuries ago"- "my rays followed a young artist. It was in thecity of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much has been changedthere in the course of time, but the changes have not come soquickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palaceof the Caesars was a ruin, as it is now; fig trees and laurels grewamong the fallen marble columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls,where the gilding still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was agigantic ruin; the church bells sounded, the incense sent up itsfragrant cloud, and through the streets marched processions withflaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there, and artwas held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatestpainter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the first ofsculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two, andhonored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored, and wasrewarded also. But, for all that, everything great and splendid wasnot seen and known.
  "In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; ayoung sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. Hecertainly had friends, young artists, like himself, young in spirit,young in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent,and an artist, but that he was foolish for having no faith in hisown power; for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay,and never completed anything; and a work must be completed if it is tobe seen and to bring money.
  "'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and that's yourmisfortune. But the reason of this is, that you have never lived,you have never tasted life, you have never enjoyed it in greatwholesome draughts, as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one mustmingle one's own personality with life, that they may become one. Lookat the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the worldadmires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'
  "'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the prettyFornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young friends.
  "Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according to theirage and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out withthem into the merry wild life, the mad life as it might also becalled; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He hadwarm blood, a strong imagination, and could take part in the merrychat, and laugh aloud with the rest; but what they called 'Raphael'smerry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divineradiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great master;and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of beauty which themasters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since, his breastswelled, and he felt within himself something high, something holy,something elevating, great and good, and he wished that he couldproduce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make apicture of that which was within him, stirring upward from his heartto the realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form?