said the Thistle Bush. "My first bornwas put into a buttonhole, and my youngest has been put in a frame.Where shall I go?"
  And the Ass stood by the road-side, and looked across at theThistle.
  "Come to me, my nibble darling!" said he. "I can't get across toyou."
  But the Thistle did not answer. He became more and morethoughtful- kept on thinking and thinking till near Christmas, andthen a flower of thought came forth.
  "If the children are only good, the parents do not mind standingoutside the garden pale."
  "That's an honorable thought," said the Sunbeam. "You shall alsohave a good place."
  "In a pot or in a frame?" asked the Thistle.
  "In a story," replied the Sunbeam.
  THE END.
  1872
  FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
  THE THORNY ROAD OF HONOR
  by Hans Christian Andersen
  AN old story yet lives of the "Thorny Road of Honor," of amarksman, who indeed attained to rank and office, but only after alifelong and weary strife against difficulties. Who has not, inreading this story, thought of his own strife, and of his own numerous"difficulties?" The story is very closely akin to reality; but stillit has its harmonious explanation here on earth, while reality oftenpoints beyond the confines of life to the regions of eternity. Thehistory of the world is like a magic lantern that displays to us, inlight pictures upon the dark ground of the present, how thebenefactors of mankind, the martyrs of genius, wandered along thethorny road of honor.
  From all periods, and from every country, these shining picturesdisplay themselves to us. Each only appears for a few moments, buteach represents a whole life, sometimes a whole age, with itsconflicts and victories. Let us contemplate here and there one ofthe company of martyrs- the company which will receive new membersuntil the world itself shall pass away.
  We look down upon a crowded amphitheatre. Out of the "Clouds" ofAristophanes, satire and humor are pouring down in streams upon theaudience; on the stage Socrates, the most remarkable man in Athens, hewho had been the shield and defence of the people against the thirtytyrants, is held up mentally and bodily to ridicule- Socrates, whosaved Alcibiades and Xenophon in the turmoil of battle, and whosegenius soared far above the gods of the ancients. He himself ispresent; he has risen from the spectator's bench, and has steppedforward, that the laughing Athenians may well appreciate thelikeness between himself and the caricature on the stage. There hestands before them, towering high above them all.
  Thou juicy, green, poisonous hemlock, throw thy shadow overAthens- not thou, olive tree of fame!
  Seven cities contended for the honor of giving birth to Homer-that is to say, they contended after his death! Let us look at himas he was in his lifetime. He wanders on foot through the cities,and recites his verses for a livelihood; the thought for the morrowturns his hair gray! He, the great seer, is blind, and painfullypursues his way- the sharp thorn tears the mantle of the king ofpoets. His song yet lives, and through that alone live all theheroes and gods of antiquity.
  One picture after another springs up from the east, from the west,far removed from each other in time and place, and yet each oneforming a portion of the thorny road of honor, on which the thistleindeed displays a flower, but only to adorn the grave.
  The camels pass along under the palm trees; they are richlyladen with indigo and other treasures of value, sent by the ruler ofthe land to him whose songs are the delight of the people, the fame ofthe country. He whom envy and falsehood have driven into exile hasbeen found, and the caravan approaches the little town in which he hastaken refuge. A poor corpse is carried out of the town gate, and thefuneral procession causes the caravan to halt. The dead man is he whomthey have been sent to seek- Firdusi- who has wandered the Thorny roadof honor even to the end.
  The African, with blunt features, thick lips, and woolly hair,sits on the marble steps of the palace in the capital of Portugal, andbegs. He is the submissive slave of Camoens, and but for him, andfor the copper coins thrown to him by the passers-by, his master,the poet of the "Lusiad," would die of hunger. Now, a costlymonument marks the grave of Camoens.
  There is a new picture.
  Behind the iron grating a man appears, pale as death, with longunkempt beard.
  "I have made a discovery," he says, "the greatest that has beenmade for centuries; and they have kept me locked up here for more thantwenty years!"