Whisper Sleep Story: Tales Of Hans Christian Andersen

Relax your mind and body as you prepare your journey to a peaceful slumber while we whisper the story of Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen.

I'll be reading the stories of a story,

Beauty of form and beauty of mind,

A cheerful temper,

The daisy,

The elf and the rose,

And the fir tree.

The story of a story.

In the garden all the apple trees were in blossom.

They had hastened to bring forth flowers before they got green leaves,

And in the yard all the ducklings walked up and down,

And the cat too.

It passed in the sun and licked the sunshine from its own paws.

And when one looked at the fields,

How beautifully the corn stood and how green it shone,

Without comparison.

And there was a twittering and a fluttering of all the little birds,

As if the day were a great festival.

And so it was,

For it was Sunday,

All the bells were ringing,

And all the people went to church,

Looking cheerful and dressed in their best clothes.

There was a look of cheerfulness on everything.

The day was so warm and beautiful that one might well have said,

God's kindness to us men is beyond all limits.

But inside the church the pastor stood in the pulpit and spoke very loudly and angrily.

He said that all men were wicked,

And God would punish them for their sins,

And that the wicked,

When they died,

Would be cast into hell to burn forever and ever.

He spoke very excitedly,

Saying that their evil propensities would not be destroyed,

Nor would the fire be extinguished,

And they should never find rest.

That was terrible to hear,

And he said it in such a tone of conviction,

He described hell to them as a miserable vole,

Where all the refuse of the world gathers.

There was no air beside the burning sulfur flame,

And there was no ground under their feet.

They,

The wicked ones,

Sank deeper and deeper,

While eternal silence surrounded them.

It was dreadful to hear all that,

For the creature spoke from his heart,

And all the people in the church were terrified.

Meanwhile,

The birds sang merrily outside,

And the sun was shining so beautifully warm,

It seemed as though every little flower said,

God,

Thy kindness towards us all is without limits.

Indeed,

Outside it was not at all like the pastor's sermon.

The same evening,

Upon going to bed,

The pastor noticed his wife sitting there quiet and pensive.

What is the matter with you?

He asked her.

Well,

The matter with me is,

She said,

That I cannot collect my thoughts,

And am unable to grasp the meaning of what you said today in church,

That there are so many wicked people,

And that they should burn eternally,

Alas,

Eternally.

How long?

I am only a woman and a sinner before God,

But I should not have the heart to let even the worst sinner burn forever,

And how could our Lord to do so,

Who is so infinitely good,

And who knows how the wickedness comes from without and within?

No,

I am unable to imagine that,

Although you say so.

It was autumn.

The trees dropped their leaves.

The earnest and severe pastor sat at the bedside of a dying person of Pius.

Faithful soul closed her eyes forever.

She was the pastor's wife.

If anyone shall find rest in the grave and mercy before our Lord,

You shall certainly do so,

Said the pastor.

He folded her hands and read a psalm over the dead woman.

She was buried.

Two large tears rolled over the cheeks of the earnest man,

And in the parsonage it was empty and still,

For its sun had set forever.

She had gone home.

It was night.

A cold wind swept over the pastor's head.

He opened his eyes,

And it seemed to him as if the moon was shining into his room.

It was not so,

However.

There was a being standing before his bed,

And looking like the ghost of his deceased wife,

She fixed her eyes upon him with such a kind and sad expression,

Just as if she wished to say something to him.

The pastor raised himself in bed and stretched his arms towards her,

Saying,

Not even you can find eternal rest.

You suffer,

You best and most pious woman,

That the dead woman nodded her head as if to say,

Wes,

And put her hand on her breast.

And can I not obtain rest in the grave for you?

Wes was the answer,

And how?

Give me one hair,

Only one single hair,

From the head of the sinner,

For whom the fire shall never be extinguished,

Of the sinner whom God will condemn to eternal punishment in hell.

Wes,

One ought to be able to redeem you so easily,

You pure,

Wise woman,

He said.

Follow me,

Said the dead woman.

It is thus granted to us.

By my side you will be able to fly wherever your thoughts wish,

To go invisible to men.

We shall penetrate into their most secret chambers,

But with sure hand you must find out him who is destined to eternal torture,

And before the cock crows he must be found.

As quickly as if carried by the winged thoughts they were in the great city,

And from the walls the names of the deadly sins shone,

Inflaming letters cried,

Avarice,

Drunkenness,

Wantonness,

In short,

The whole seven colored bow of sin.

Yes,

Therene,

As I believed,

As I knew it,

Said the pastor,

Or living those who are abandoned to the eternal fire.

And they were standing before the magnificently illuminated gate.

The broad steps were adorned with carpets and flowers,

And dance music was sounding through the festive halls.

A footman dressed in silk and velvet stood with a large silver-mounted rod near the entrance.

Our Paul can compare favorably with the king's,

He said,

And turned with contempt towards the gazing crowd in the street.

What he thought was sufficiently expressed in his features and movements.

Miserable beggars who are looking in,

You are nothing in comparison to me,

Cried,

Said the dead woman.

Do you see him?

The footman asked the pastor,

He is but a poor fool,

And not doomed to be tortured eternally by fire.

Only a fool,

It sounded through the whole house of Bridey.

They were all fools there.

Then they flew within the four naked walls of the musher,

Lean as a skeleton,

Trembling with cold and hunger.

The old man was clinging with all his thoughts to his money.

They saw him jump up feverishly from his miserable couch and take a loose stone out of the wall.

There lay gold coins in an old stocking.

They saw him anxiously feeling over an old rag coat,

In which pieces of gold were sewn,

And his clammy fingers trembled.

He is ill,

That is madness,

A joyless madness,

Besieged by fear and dreadful dreams.

They quickly went away and came before the beds of the criminals.

These unfortunate people slept side by side,

And long rose,

Like a ferocious animal.

One of them rose out of his sleep and uttered a horrible cry,

And gave his comrade a violent date in the rims with his pointed elbow,

And this one turned round in his sleep.

Be quiet,

Monster,

Sleep,

This happens every night.

Every night,

Repeated the other.

Wes,

Every night he comes and tortures me.

In my violence I have done this,

And that I was born with an evil mind,

Which has brought me thither for the second time.

But if I have done wrong I suffer punishment,

For it one thing,

However,

I have not yet confessed.

When I came out a little while ago,

And passed by the yard of my former master,

Evil thoughts rose within me.

When I remembered this and that,

I struck a match a little bit on the wall,

Probably it came a little too close to the thatched roof.

All burnt down,

A great heat rose,

Such as sometimes overcomes me.

I myself helped to rescue cattle and things,

Nothing alive burnt,

Except a flight of pigeons,

Which flew into the fire,

And the yard dog,

Of which I had not thought one could hear him howl out of the fire,

And this howling I still hear when I wish to sleep.

And when I has fallen asleep,

The great roof dog comes and places himself upon me,

And falls,

Presses,

And tortures me.

Now listen to what I tell you,

You can snore,

You are snoring the whole night,

And I fartly a quarter of an hour.

And the blood rose to the head of the excited criminal,

He threw himself upon his comrade,

And beat him with his clenched fist in the face.

Wicked Mats has become mad again,

They said amongst themselves.

The other criminals seized him,

Wrestled with him,

And bent him double,

So that his head rested between his knees,

And they tied him,

So that the blood almost came out of his eyes,

And out of all his pores.

You are killing the unfortunate man,

Said the pastor,

And as he stretched out his hand to protect him,

Who already suffered too much,

The scene changed they,

They flew through rich halls and wretched hovels,

Wantonness and envy,

All the deadly sins,

Passed before them an angel of justice read their crimes,

And their defense,

The latter was not a brilliant one,

But it was read before God,

Who reads the fart,

Who knows everything,

The wickedness that comes from within and from without,

Who is mercy and love personified,

The pastor's hand trembled,

He dared not stretch it out,

He did not venture to pull a hair out of the sinner's head,

And tears gushed from his eyes like a stream of mercy and love,

The cooling waters of which extinguished the eternal fire of hell,

Just in the cock crowd,

Feather of all mercy,

Grant thou to her the peace that I was unable to procure for her,

I have it now,

Said the dead woman,

It was your hard words,

Your despair of mankind,

Your gloomy belief in God and his creation,

Which drove me to you,

Learn to know man,

Even in the wicked one lives a part of God,

And this extinguishes and conquers the flame of hell,

The pastor felt a kiss on his lips,

A gleam of light surrounded him,

God's bright sun shone into the room,

And his wife alive,

Sweet and full of love,

Awoke him from a dream which God had sent him,

The end of a story,

The story of beauty of form and beauty of mind,

B-a-u-t-y-o-f-o-r-m-a-n-d-b-u-t-y-o-f-m-e-n-d,

There was once a sculptor named Alfred,

Who having won the large gold medal and obtained a traveling scholarship,

Went to Italy,

And then came back to his native land,

He was young at that time,

Indeed,

He is young still,

Although he is ten years older than he was then,

On his return,

He went to visit one of the little towns in the island of Sealand,

The whole town knew who the stranger was,

And one of the richest men in the place gave a party in his honor,

And all who were of any consequence,

Or who possessed some property,

Were invited,

It was quite an event,

And all the town knew of it,

So that it was not necessary to announce it by beat of drum,

Apprentice,

Boys,

Children of the poor,

And even the poor people themselves,

Stood before the house,

Watching the lighted windows,

And the watchman might easily fancy,

He was giving a party also,

There were so many people in the streets,

There was quite an air of festivity about it,

And the house was full of it,

For Mr.

Alfred,

The sculptor,

Was there,

He talked,

And told anecdotes,

And everyone listened to him with pleasure,

Not unmingled with all,

But none felt so much respect for him,

As did the elderly widow of a naval officer,

She seemed,

So far as Miss R.

Alfred was concerned,

To be like a piece of fresh plodding,

Paper that absorbed all,

He said,

And asked for more,

She was very appreciative,

And incredibly ignorant,

Kind of female gasparvosser,

I should like to see Rome,

She said,

It must be a lovely city,

Or so many foreigners would not be constantly arriving there,

Now,

To give me a description of Rome,

How does the city look when you enter in at the gate,

I cannot very well describe it,

Said the sculptor,

Could you enter on a large open space,

In the center of which stands an obelisk,

Which is a thousand years old,

An organist,

Exclaimed the lady,

Who had never heard the word,

Obelisk,

Several of the guests could scarcely forbear laughing,

And the sculptor would have had some difficulty in keeping his countenance,

But the smile on his lips faded away,

For he caught sight of a pair of dark,

Blue eyes close by the side of the inquisitive lady,

They belonged to her daughter,

And surely no one who had such a daughter could be silly,

The mother was like a fountain of questions,

And the daughter,

Who listened but never spoke,

Might have passed for the beautiful maid of the fountain,

How charming she was,

She was a study for the sculptor to contemplate,

But not to converse with,

For she did not speak,

Or at least very seldom,

Has the pope a great family,

Inquired the lady,

The young man answered considerably,

As if the question had been a different one,

Knows he does not come from a great family,

That is not what I asked,

Persisted the widow,

I mean,

Has he a wife and children,

The pope is not allowed to marry,

Replied the gentleman,

I don't like that,

Was the lady's remark,

She certainly might have asked more sensible questions,

But if she had not been allowed to say,

Just what she liked,

Would her daughter have been there,

Leaning so gracefully on her shoulder,

And looking straight before her,

With a smile that was almost mournful on her face,

Mr.

Alfred again spoke of Italy,

And of the glorious colors in Italian scenery,

The purple hills,

The deep blue of the Mediterranean,

The azure of southern skies,

Whose brightness and glory could only be surpassed in the north by the deep,

Blue eyes of a maiden,

And he said this with a peculiar intonation,

But she who should have understood his meaning,

Looked quite unconscious of it,

Which also was charming,

Beautiful Italy,

Sighed some of the guests,

Vowed to travel there,

Exclaimed others,

Charming,

Charming,

Echoed from every voice,

I may perhaps win a hundred thousand dollars in the lottery,

Said the naval officer's widow,

And if I do,

We will travel,

I and my daughter,

And you,

Mr.

Alfred,

Must be our guide,

We can all free travel together,

With one or two more of our good friends,

And she nodded in such a friendly way at the company,

That each imagined himself to be the favorite person who was to accompany them to Italy,

Wes,

We must go,

She continued,

But not to those parts where there are robbers,

We will keep to Rome,

In the public roads one is always safe,

The daughter sighed very gently,

And how much there may be in a sigh,

Or attributed to it,

The young man attributed a great deal of meaning to this sigh,

Those deep blue eyes,

Which had been lit up this evening in honor of him,

Must conceal treasures,

Treasures of heart and mind,

Richer than all the glories of Rome,

And so when he left the party that night,

He had lost it completely to the young lady,

The house of the naval officer's widow,

Was the one most constantly visited by Emesser,

Alfred,

The sculptor,

It was soon understood that his visits were not intended for that lady,

Though they were the persons who kept up the conversation,

He came for the sake of the daughter,

They called her Kaila,

Her name was really Karen Molina,

And these two names had been contracted into the one named Kaila,

She was really beautiful,

But some said she was rather dull,

And slept late of a morning,

She has been accustomed to that,

Her mother said she is a beauty,

And they are always easily tired,

She does sleep rather late,

But that makes her eyes so clear,

What powers seem to lie in the depths of those dark eyes,

Think of the provert,

Still waters run deeper,

And his heart had sunk into their depths,

He often talked of his adventures,

And the mama was as simple and eager in her questions as on the first evening they met,

It was a pleasure to hear Alfred describe anything,

He showed them colored plates of Naples and spoke of excursions to Mount Vesuvius,

And the eruptions of fire from it,

The naval officer's widow had never heard of them before,

Good heavens,

She exclaimed,

So that is a burning mountain,

But is it not very dangerous to the people who live near it,

All cities have been destroyed,

He replied,

The poor people,

And you saw all that with your own eyes,

No,

I did not see any of the eruptions which are represented in those pictures,

But I will show you a sketch of my own,

Which represents an eruption I once saw,

He placed a pencil sketch on the table,

And mama,

Who had been over,

Powered with the imperial drawing,

And cried in astonishment,

What,

Did you see it throw up white fire,

For a moment,

Alfred's respect for Kaila's mama underwent a sudden shock,

And lessened considerably,

But dazzled by the light which surrounded Kaila,

He soon found it quite natural that the old lady should have no eye for color,

After all,

It was of very little consequence,

For Kaila's mama had the best of all possessions,

Namely Kaila herself,

Alfred and Kaila were betrothed,

Which was a very natural result,

And the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little town,

Mama purchased 30 copies of the paper,

That she might cut out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances,

The betrothed very happy,

And the mother was happy too,

She said it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwaldston,

You are a true successor of Thorwaldston,

She said to Alfred,

And it seemed to him as if,

In this instance,

Mama had said a clever thing,

Kaila was silent,

But her eyes shone,

Her lips smiled,

Every movement was graceful,

In fact,

She was beautiful,

That cannot be repeated too often,

Alfred decided to take a bust of Kaila,

As well as of her mother,

They sat to him accordingly,

And saw how he molded,

And formed the soft clay with his fingers,

I suppose it is only on our account that you perform this common place work yourself,

Instead of leaving it to your servant to do all that sticking together,

It is really necessary that I should move the clay myself,

He replied,

Yes,

You are always so polite,

Said mama with a smile,

And Kaila silently pressed his hand,

All soiled as it was with the clay,

Then he unfolded to them both the beauties of nature,

In all her works,

He pointed out to them how,

In the scale of creation,

Inanimate matter was inferior to animate nature,

The plant above the mineral,

The animal above the plant,

And man above them all,

He strove to show them how the beauty of the mind could be displayed in the outward form,

And that it was the sculptor's task to seize upon that beauty of expression,

And produce it in his works,

Kaila stood silent,

But nodded in approbation of what he said,

While Mama in law made the following confession,

It is difficult to follow you,

But I go hobbling along after you with my thoughts,

Though what you say makes my head whirl round and round,

Still I contrive to lay hold on some of it,

Kaila's beauty had a firm hold on Alfred,

It felt his soul,

And held a mastery over him,

Beauty beamed from Kaila's every feature,

Glittered in her eyes,

Lurked in the corners of her mouth,

And pervaded every movement of her agile fingers,

Alfred,

The sculptor,

Saw this,

He spoke only to her,

Thought only of her,

And the two became one,

And so it may be said she spoke much,

For he was always talking to her,

And he and she were one,

Such was the betrothal,

And then came the wedding,

With brides,

Maids,

And wedding crescents,

All till I mentioned in the wedding speech,

Mama in law had set up Thorwaldson's bust at the end of the table,

Attired in a dressing gown,

It was her fancy that he should be a guest,

Psalms were sung,

And cheers given,

For it was a gay wedding,

And they were a handsome pair,

Pygmalion loved his Galatea,

Said one of the psalms,

Said that is some of your mythologies,

Said Mama in law,

Next day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen,

Where they were to live,

Mama in law accompanied them to attend to the coursework,

As she always called the domestic arrangements,

Kaila looked like a doll in a doll's house,

For everything was bright and new,

And so fine,

There they sat,

All free,

And as for Alfred,

A proverb may describe his position,

He looked like a swan amongst the geese,

The magic of form had enchanted him,

He had looked at the casket,

Without caring to inquire what it contained,

And that omission often brings the greatest unhappiness into married life,

The casket may be injured,

A gelding may fall off,

And then the purchaser regrets his bargain,

In a large party it is very disagreeable to find a button giving way,

With no studs at hand to fall back upon,

But it is worse still in a large company to be conscious that your wife and mother in law are talking nonsense,

And that you cannot depend upon yourself to produce a little ready wit,

To carry off,

You could only now,

And then let fall a word in the same melodious voice,

The same bell,

Like tones,

It was a mental relief when Sophie,

One of her friends,

Came to pay them a visit,

Sophie was not pretty,

She was however,

Quite free from any physical deformity,

Although Kaila used to say she was a little crooked,

But no I,

Save an intimate acquaintance,

Would have noticed it,

She was a very sensible girl,

Yet it never occurred to her that she might be a dangerous person in such a house,

Her appearance created a new atmosphere in the doll's house,

And air was really required,

They all owned that,

They felt a change of air,

And consequently the young couple,

And their mother traveled to Italy,

Thank heaven we are at home again within our own four walls,

Said mama,

In law and daughter both,

On their return after a year's absence,

Dear is no real pleasure in traveling,

Said mama,

To tell the truth,

It's very wearisome,

I beg pardon for saying so,

I was soon very tired of it,

Although I had my children with me,

And besides,

It's very expensive work traveling,

Very expensive,

And all those galleries one is expected to see,

And the quantity of things you are obliged to run after,

It must be done,

For very shame,

You are sure to be asked,

When you come back if you have seen everything,

And will most likely be told,

That you've omitted to see what was best worth seeing of all,

I got tired,

At last of those endless Madonnas,

I began to think I was turning into a Madonna myself,

And then the living mama,

Said Kayla,

Yes indeed,

She replied,

No such a thing as a respectable meat soup,

Their cookery is miserable stuff,

The journey had also tired Kayla,

But she was always fatigued,

That was the worst of it,

So they sent for Sophie,

And she was taken into the house to reside with them,

And her presence there was a great advantage,

Mama,

In,

Low acknowledged,

That Sophie,

Was not only a clever housewife,

But well informed and accomplished,

Though that could hardly be expected in a person of her limited means,

She was also a generous,

Farted,

Faithful girl,

She showed that furrowfully while Kayla lay sick,

Fading away,

When the casket is everything,

The casket should be strong,

Or else all is over and,

All was over with the casket,

For Kayla died,

She was beautiful,

Said her mother,

She was quite different from the beauties they call,

Antiques,

For they are so damaged,

A beauty ought to be perfect,

And Kayla was a perfect beauty,

Alfred wept,

And mama wept,

And they both wore mourning,

The black dress suited mama very well,

And she wore mourning the longest,

She had also to experience another grief in seeing,

Alfred marry again,

Marry Sophie,

Who was nothing at all to look at,

He's gone to the very extreme,

Said mama in law,

He has gone from the most beautiful to the ugliest,

And he has forgotten his first wife,

Men have no constancy,

My husband was a very different man,

But then he died before me,

Beakmullion loved his Galata,

Was in the Some Day Sun at my first wedding,

Said Alfred,

I once fell in love with a beautiful statue,

Which awoke to life in my arms,

But the kindred soul,

Which is a gift from heaven,

The angel who can feel and sympathize with and elevate us,

I have not found in one till now,

You came,

Sophie,

Not in the glory of outward beauty,

Though you are even fairer than is necessary,

The chief thing still remains,

You came to teach the sculptor that his work is but dust,

And clay only,

An outward form,

Made of a material that decays,

And that what we should seek to obtain is the ethereal essence of mind and spirit,

Poor Kayla,

Our life was but as a meeting by the wayside,

In yonder world,

Where we shall know each other from a union of mind,

We shall be but mere acquaintances,

That was not a loving speech,

Said Sophie,

Nor spoken like a Christian in a future state,

Where there is neither marrying,

Nor giving in marriage,

That where,

As you say,

Souls are attracted to each other by sympathy,

Their everything beautiful develops itself and is raised to a higher state of existence,

Her soul will acquire such completeness,

That it may harmonize with yours,

Even more than mine,

And you will then,

Once more utter your first rapturous exclamation of your love,

Beautiful,

Most beautiful,

The end of beauty of form,

And beauty of mind,

The story of a cheerful temper,

From my father I received the best inheritance,

Namely a good temper,

The,

And who was my father,

That has nothing to do with the good temper,

But I will say he was lovely,

Good looking round,

And fat,

He was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction to his profession,

And pray what was his profession,

And his standing in respectable society,

Well,

Perhaps,

If in the beginning of a book these were written and printed,

Many,

When they read it,

Would lay the book down and say,

It seems to me a very miserable title,

I don't like things of this sort,

And yet my father was not a skin dresser nor an executioner,

On the contrary,

His employment placed him at the head of the grandest people of the town,

And it was his place by right he had to precede the bishop,

And even the princes of the blood,

He always went first,

He was a year's driver,

There,

Now the truth is out,

And I will own,

That when people saw my father perched up in front of the omnibus of death,

Dressed in his long,

Wide black cloak,

And his black-edged,

Three-cornered hat on his head,

And then glanced at his round,

Jokin' face,

Round as the sun,

They could not think much of sorrow or the grave,

That face said,

It is nothing,

It will all end better than people think,

So I have inherited from him,

Not only my good temper,

But a habit of going often to the church yard,

Which is good,

When done in a proper schumer,

And then also I take in the intelligencer,

Just as he used to do,

I am not very young,

I have neither wife nor children,

Nor a library,

But as I said,

I read the intelligencer,

Which is enough for me,

It is to me a delightful paper,

And so it was to my father,

It is of great use,

For it contains all that a man requires to know,

The names of the creatures at the church,

And the new books which are published,

Where houses,

Servants,

Clones,

And provisions may be obtained,

And then what a number of subscriptions to charities,

And what innocent verses,

Persons seeking interviews,

And engagements,

All so plainly and naturally stated,

Certainly a man who takes in the intelligencer,

May live merrily,

And be buried contentedly,

And by the end of his life,

Will have such a capital stock of paper,

That he can lie on a soft bed of it,

Unless he prefers wood shavings for his resting,

Place,

The newspaper and the churchyard,

Were always exciting objects to me,

My walks to the latter were like bathing,

Places to my good humor,

Everyone can read the newspaper for himself,

But come with me to the churchyard,

While the sun shines,

And the trees are green,

And let us wander among the graves,

Each of them,

Is like a closed book,

With the back uppermost,

On which we can read the title of what the book contains,

But nothing more,

I had a great deal of information from my father,

And I have noticed a great deal myself,

I keep it in my diary,

In which I write for my own use,

And pleasure a history of all who lie here,

And a few more beside,

Now we are in the churchyard here,

Behind the white iron railings,

Once a rose tree grew,

It is gone now,

But a little bit of evergreen,

From a neighboring grave,

Stretches out its green tendrils,

And makes some appearance,

There rests a very unhappy man,

And yet while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position,

He had enough to live upon,

And something to spare,

But owing to his refined tastes,

The least thing in the world annoyed him,

If he went to a theater of an evening,

Instead of enjoying himself,

He would be quite annoyed,

If the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of the moon,

Or if the representations of the sky,

Found over the scenes,

When they ought to have come behind them,

Or if a plum tree was introduced into a scene,

Representing the zoological gardens of Berlin,

Or a cactus in a view of Tyrol,

Or a beech tree in the north of Norway,

As if these things were of any consequence,

Why did he not leave them alone,

Who would trouble themselves about such trifles,

Especially at a comedy,

Where everyone is expected to be amused,

Then sometimes the public applauded too much,

Or too little,

To please him,

They are like wet wood,

He would say,

Looking round to see what sort of people were crescent,

This evening,

Nothing fires them,

Then he would vex and fret himself,

Because they did not laugh at the right time,

Or because they laughed in the wrong places,

And so he fretted and worried himself till,

At last the unhappy man fretted himself into the grave,

Here rests a happy man,

That is to say,

A man of high birth and position,

Which was very lucky for him,

Otherwise he would have been scarcely worth notice,

It is beautiful to observe,

How wisely nature orders these things,

He walked about in a coat embroidered all over,

And in the drawing,

Rooms of society look just like one of those rich pearl embroidered bell-pulls,

Which are only made for show,

And behind them always hangs a good thick cord for use,

This man also had a stout,

Useful substitute behind him,

Who did duty for him,

And performed all his dirty work,

And there are still,

Even now,

These serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes,

It is all so wisely arranged,

That a man may well be in a good humor,

Here rests,

Ah,

It makes one feel mournful to think of him,

But here rests a man,

Who during sixty,

Seven years,

Was never remembered to have said a good thing,

He lived only in the vogue of having a good idea,

At last he felt convinced,

In his own mind,

That he really had won,

And was so delighted,

That he positively died of joy at the thought of having at last got an idea,

Nobody got anything by it,

Indeed,

No one even heard what the good thing was now,

I can imagine that this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in his grave,

For suppose that to produce a good effect,

It is necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast,

And that he can only make his appearance on earth at midnight,

As ghosts are believed generally to do,

Why then this good idea would not suit the hour,

And the man would have to carry it down again with him into the grave,

That the woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy,

That during her life she would get up in the night and mew,

That her neighbors might think she kept a cat,

What a miser she was,

Here rests a young lady,

Of a good family,

Who would always make her voice heard in society,

And when she sang,

My man Caliphos,

One it was the only true thing she ever said in her life,

Here lies a maiden of another description,

She was engaged to be married,

But her story is one of everyday life,

We will leave her to rest in the grave,

Here rests a widow,

Kol,

With music in her tongue,

Carried Kol in her heart,

She used to go round among the families near,

And search out their faults,

Upon which she craved with all the envy and malice of her nature,

This is a family grave,

The members of this family held so firmly together in their opinions,

That they would believe in no other,

If the newspapers,

Or even the whole world,

Said of a certain subject,

It is so and so,

And a little schoolboy declared he had learned quite differently,

They would take his assertion as the only true one,

Because he belonged to the family,

And it is well known that if the yard,

Cock,

Belonging to this family happened to crow at midnight,

They would declare it was morning,

Although the watchmen,

And all the clocks in the town,

Were proclaiming that our poet,

Kol concludes his fast with the words,

May be continued,

So might our wanderings in the church yard be continued,

I come here often,

And if any of my friends,

Or those who are not my friends,

Are too much for me,

I go out and choose a plot of ground in which to bury him,

Or her,

Then I bury them,

As it were,

There they lie,

Dead,

And powerless,

Till they come back new,

And better characters I write down in my diary,

As every one ought to do,

Then,

If any of our friends act absurdly,

No one need to be vexed about it,

Let them bury the offenders out of sight,

And keep their good temper,

They can also read the intelligencer,

Which is a paper written by the people,

When the time comes for the history of my life,

To be bound by the grave,

A cheerful temper,

And this is my story,

The end of a cheerful temper,

The story of the daisy,

Now listen,

In the country,

Clyde Road,

Stood a farmhouse,

Perhaps you have passed by,

And seen it yourself,

There was a little flower garden,

With painted wooden paling of it,

Close by was a ditch,

On its fresh green bank grew a little daisy,

The sun shone as warmly and brightly upon it,

As on the magnificent garden flowers,

And therefore it thrived well one morning,

It had quite opened,

And its little snow,

White petals stood round the yellow center,

Like the rays of the sun,

It did not mind that nobody saw it in the grass,

And that on the contrary,

It was quite happy,

And turned towards the sun,

Looking upward and listening to the song of the lark high up in the air,

The little daisy was as happy as if the day had been a great holiday,

All the children were at school,

And while they were sitting on the forms,

And learning their lessons,

It sat on its thin green stalk,

And learned from the sun,

And from its surroundings how kind God is,

And it rejoiced that the song of the little lark expressed so sweetly and distinctly its own feelings,

With a sort of reverence the daisy,

Looked up to the bird,

How envious,

I can see and hear,

It thought,

The sun shines upon me,

And the forest kisses me,

How rich I am,

In the garden close,

And,

Strange to say,

The less fragrance they had the fottier and prouder they were,

The peonies puffed themselves up,

In order to be larger than the roses,

But size is not everything,

The tulips have candles,

That one might see them the better,

In there we did not see any more,

Said the sparrows,

But this was enough as to,

However,

I shall consider myself happy,

When some one come this ever happen,

Yes,

One morning people came to clear out the garret,