the sun shone and the birds sang.  On a spring day the neighbor’s boy also brought him field flowers, and among these was, by chance, one to which the root was hanging; and so it was planted in a flower-pot, and placed by the bed, close to the window.  And the flower had been planted by a fortunate hand; and it grew, threw out new shoots, and bore flowers every year.  It became as a splendid flower-garden to the sickly boy—­his little treasure here on earth.  He watered it, and tended it, and took care that it had the benefit of every ray of sunlight, down to the last that struggled in through the narrow window; and the flower itself was woven into his dreams, for it grew for him and gladdened his eyes, and spread its fragrance about him; and toward it he turned in death when the Father called him.  He has now been with the Almighty for a year; for a year the flower has stood forgotten in the window, and is withered; and thus, at the removal, it has been thrown out into the dust of the street.  And this is the flower, the poor withered flower, which we have taken into our nosegay; for this flower has given more joy than the richest flower in a Queen’s garden!”

“But how do you know all this?” asked the child which the angel was carrying to heaven.

“I know it,” said the angel, “for I myself was that little boy who walked on crutches!  I know my flower well!”

And the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious, happy face of the angel; and at the same moment they entered the regions where there is peace and joy.  And the Father pressed the dead child to His bosom, and then it received wings like the angel, and flew hand in hand with him.  And the Almighty pressed all the flowers to His heart; but He kissed the dry withered field flower, and it received a voice and sang with all the angels hovering around—­some near, and some in wider circles, and some in infinite distance, but all equally happy.  And they all sang, little and great, the good happy child, and the poor field flower that had lain there withered, thrown among the dust, in the rubbish of the removal-day, in the narrow, dark lane.

THE RED SHOES

By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

There once was a little girl; a very nice pretty little girl.  But in summer she had to go barefoot, because she was poor, and in winter she wore thick wooden shoes, so that her little instep became quite red, altogether red.

In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker’s wife; she sat, and sewed, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes, of old strips of red cloth; they were clumsy enough, but well meant, and the little girl was to have them.  The little girl’s name was Karen.

On the day when her mother was buried she received the red shoes and wore them for the first time.  They were certainly not suited for mourning; but she had no others, and therefore thrust her little bare feet into them and walked behind the plain deal coffin.