The switches danced the mazurka, for they were stronger than the flowers and could stamp their feet. All at once the wax doll began to grow. It became taller and bigger and started screaming at the paper flowers: “What a lot of nonsense to tell a child! What a lot of nonsense!”
Now the wax doll looked exactly like the chancellor; for he, too, wore a broad-brimmed hat and had a yellow complexion and a sour expression. The ribbons started to hit the wax doll across the legs, and he had to pull himself together till he was only a little wax doll again.
It was all so funny that little Ida could not help laughing. The switches kept on dancing, and the chancellor had to dance too—when he was as big and tall as a man and when he was only a little wax doll. He was given no rest, until the flowers begged the switches to stop; the flowers who had lain in the doll’s bed felt especially sorry for the little wax doll.
As soon as the switches stopped dancing there came a knocking from the drawer where the doll Sophie lay. The little porcelain man went carefully to the edge of the table, leaned over the side of it, and pulled the drawer open as much as he could—which wasn’t very much. Sophie stuck out her head. “I see there is a ball. Why hasn’t anyone told me about it?”
“Would you like to dance with me?” asked the porcelain man.
“Pooh! You are chipped,” said Sophie, and sat down on the edge of the drawer, with her back to the poor little porcelain man. She thought that one of the flowers would come and ask her to dance, but none of them did. The porcelain man danced by himself and he didn’t dance badly at all.
Since none of the flowers seemed to notice her, Sophie jumped down upon the floor. She landed with a crash and all the flowers came running over to ask her whether she had hurt herself; the flowers who had lain in her bed were especially considerate.
But Sophie hadn’t hurt herself. Little Ida’s flowers thanked her for having been allowed to sleep in her bed, and they told her that they loved her; then they took her out to the middle of the floor, where there was a great splash of moonlight, and danced with her. All of the other flowers made a circle around them, and Sophie was so happy that she told the flowers they could keep her bed, even though she didn’t like sleeping in the drawer.
“Thank you,” the flowers replied. “It is most kind of you, but our life is short. Tomorrow we shall be dead. Tell little Ida to bury us out in the garden where the canary is buried; and next year we shall come to life again and be even more beautiful than we are now.”
“You mustn’t die!” cried the doll, and kissed the flowers.
At that moment the door of the dining room opened and the most beautiful flowers came dancing in. Little Ida could not imagine where they had come from, unless they were the flowers from the park near the king’s castle.
First entered two roses who wore gold crowns. They were the king and the queen. Behind them came the carnations and the lilies, bowing and waving to the other flowers.
There was music. Big poppies and peonies blew on the pods of sweet peas with such vigor that their faces were red. The bluebells tingled. It was a funny orchestra both to watch and to listen to. At last came all the other flowers, dancing: violets, daisies, and lilies of the valley; as they finished their dance, they kissed each other. It was lovely to see.
The flowers said good night to each other, and little Ida climbed back into her little bed and dreamed about everything she had seen.
The next morning when she woke, she ran right over to the doll’s bed to see if the flowers were still there. There they were, but now they were all shriveled and dead. Her doll Sophie was in the drawer; she looked awfully sleepy.
“Can you remember what you are supposed to tell me?” little Ida asked. Sophie didn’t say a word.
“You are not a good doll,” scolded little Ida. “Remember how all the flowers danced with you!” Then she took a paper box that had a lovely picture of a bird on its lid and laid the flowers in it.
“That will be your honorable coffin,” she said. “And when my cousins come from Norway, then we’ll have a funeral and bury you, so you can come again next summer and be more beautiful than you are now.”
The cousins from Norway were two strong boys. Their names were Jonas and Adolph. Their father had given them each a bow and some arrows; and these they had brought along to show little Ida.
She told them about the poor flowers that had died and allowed them to attend the funeral. It was almost a procession. First came the boys with their bows slung over their shoulders, then little Ida, carrying the pretty little paper box. In the corner of the garden they dug a little grave. Ida kissed the flowers before she buried them. Jonas and Adolph shot an arrow above the grave, for they didn’t have a gun or a cannon.
5
Inchelina
Once upon a time there was a woman whose only desire was to have a tiny little child. Now she had no idea where she could get one; so she went to an old witch and asked her: “Please, could you tell me where I could get a tiny little child? I would so love to have one.”
“That is not so difficult,” said the witch. “Here is a grain of barley; it is not the kind that grows in the farmer’s fields or that you can feed to the chickens. Plant it in a flowerpot and watch what happens.”
“Thank you,” said the woman. She handed the witch twelve pennies, and she went home to plant the grain of barley. No sooner was it in the earth than it started to sprout. A beautiful big flower grew up; it looked like a tulip that was just about to bloom.
“What a lovely flower,” said the woman, and kissed the red and yellow petals that were closed so tightly. With a snap they opened and one could see that it was a real tulip. In the center of the flower on the green stigma sat a tiny little girl. She was so beautiful and so delicate, and exactly one inch long. “I will call her Inchelina,” thought the woman.
The lacquered shell of a walnut became Inchelina’s cradle, the blue petals of violets her mattress, and a rose petal her cover. Here she slept at night; in the daytime she played on the table by the window. The woman had put a bowl of water there with a garland of flowers around it. In this tiny “lake” there floated a tulip petal, on which Inchelina could row from one side of the plate to the other, using two white horsehairs as oars; it was an exquisite sight. And Inchelina could sing, as no one has ever sung before—so clearly and delicately.
One night as she lay sleeping in her beautiful little bed a toad came into the room through a broken windowpane. The toad was big and wet and ugly; she jumped down upon the table where Inchelina was sleeping under her red rose petal.
“She would make a lovely wife for my son,” said the toad; and grabbing the walnut shell in which Inchelina slept, she leaped through the broken window and down into the garden.
On the banks of a broad stream, just where it was muddiest, lived the toad with her son. He had taken after his mother and was very ugly. “Croak … Croak … Croak!” was all he said when he saw the beautiful little girl in the walnut shell.
“Don’t talk so loud or you will wake her,” scolded the mother. “She could run away and we wouldn’t be able to catch her, for she is as light as the down of a swan. I will put her on a water-lily leaf, it will be just like an island to her. In the meantime, we shall get your apartment, down in the mud, ready for your marriage.”
Out in the stream grew many water lilies, and all of their leaves looked as if they were floating in the water. The biggest of them was the farthest from shore; on that one the old toad put Inchelina’s little bed.
When the poor little girl woke in the morning and saw where she was—on a green leaf with water all around her—she began to cry bitterly. There was no way of getting to shore at all.
The old toad was very busy down in her mud house, decorating the walls with reeds and yellow flowers that grew near the shore. She meant to do her best for her new daughter-in-law. After she had finished, she and her ugly son swam out to the water-lily leaf to fetch Inchelina’s bed. It was to be put in t
he bridal chamber. The old toad curtsied and that is not easy to do while you are swimming; then she said, “Here is my son. He is to be your husband; you two will live happily down in the mud.”
“Croak! … Croak!” was all the son said. Then they took the bed and swam away with it. Poor Inchelina sat on the green leaf and wept and wept, for she did not want to live with the ugly toad and have her hideous son as a husband. The little fishes that were swimming about in the water had heard what the old toad said; they stuck their heads out of the water to take a look at the tiny girl. When they saw how beautiful she was, it hurt them to think that she should have to marry the ugly toad and live in the mud. They decided that they would not let it happen, and gathered around the green stalk that held the leaf anchored to the bottom of the stream. They all nibbled on the stem, and soon the leaf was free. It drifted down the stream, bearing Inchelina far away from the ugly toad.
As Inchelina sailed by, the little birds on the shore saw her and sang, “What a lovely little girl.” Farther and farther sailed the leaf with its little passenger, taking her on a journey to foreign lands.
For a long time a lovely white butterfly flew around her, then landed on the leaf. It had taken a fancy to Inchelina. The tiny girl laughed, for she was so happy to have escaped the toad; and the stream was so beautiful, golden in the sunshine. She took the little silk ribbon which she wore around her waist and tied one end of it to the butterfly and the other to the water-lily leaf. Now the leaf raced down the stream—and so did Inchelina, for she was standing on it.
At that moment a big May bug flew by; when it spied Inchelina, it swooped down and with its claws grabbed the poor girl around her tiny waist and flew up into a tree with her. The leaf floated on down the stream, and the butterfly had to follow it.
Oh God, little Inchelina was terrified as the May bug flew away with her, but stronger than her fear was her grief for the poor little white butterfly that she had chained to the leaf with her ribbon. If he did not get loose, he would starve to death.
The May bug didn’t care what happened to the butterfly. He placed Inchelina on the biggest leaf on the tree. He gave her honey from the flowers to eat, and told her that she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, even though she didn’t look like a May bug. Soon all the other May bugs that lived in the tree came visiting. Two young lady May bugs—they were still unmarried—wiggled their antennae and said: “She has only two legs, how wretched. No antennae and a thin waist, how disgusting! She looks like a human being: how ugly!”
All the other female May bugs agreed with them. The May bug who had caught Inchelina still thought her lovely; but when all the others kept insisting that she was ugly, he soon was convinced of it too. Now he didn’t want her any longer, and put her down on a daisy at the foot of the tree and told her she could go wherever she wanted to, for all he cared. Poor Inchelina cried; she thought it terrible to be so ugly that even a May bug would not want her, and that in spite of her being more beautiful than you can imagine, more lovely than the petal of the most beautiful rose.
All summer long poor Inchelina lived all alone in the forest. She wove a hammock out of grass and hung it underneath a dock leaf so that it would not rain on her while she slept. She ate the honey in the flowers and drank the dew that was on their leaves every morning.
Summer and autumn passed. But then came winter: the long, cold winter. All the birds that had sung so beautifully flew away. The flowers withered, the trees lost their leaves; and the dock leaf that had protected her rolled itself up and became a shriveled yellow stalk. She was so terribly cold. Her clothes were in shreds; and she was so thin and delicate.
Poor Inchelina, she was bound to freeze to death. It started to snow and each snowflake that fell on her was like a whole shovelful of snow would be to us, because we are so big, and she was only one inch tall.
She wrapped herself in a wizened leaf, but it gave no warmth and she shivered from the cold.
Not far from the forest was a big field where grain had grown; only a few dry stubbles still rose from the frozen ground, pointing up to the heavens. To Inchelina these straws were like a forest. Trembling, she wandered through them and came to the entrance of a field mouse’s house. It was only a little hole in the ground. But deep down below the mouse lived in warmth and comfort, with a full larder and a nice kitchen. Like a beggar child, Inchelina stood outside the door and begged for a single grain of barley. It was several days since she had last eaten.
“Poor little wretch,” said the field mouse, for she had a kind heart. “Come down into my warm living room and dine with me.”
The field mouse liked Inchelina. “You can stay the winter,” she said. “But you must keep the room tidy and tell me a story every day, for I like a good story.” Inchelina did what the kind old mouse demanded, and she lived quite happily.
“Soon we shall have a visitor,” said the mouse. “Once a week my neighbor comes. He lives even more comfortably than I do. He has a drawing room, and wears the most exquisite black fur coat. If only he would marry you, then you would be well provided for. He can’t see you, for he is blind, so you will have to tell him the very best of your stories.”
But Inchelina did not want to marry the mouse’s neighbor, for he was a mole. The next day he came visiting, dressed in his black velvet fur coat. The field mouse had said that he was both rich and wise. His house was twenty times as big as the mouse’s; and learned he was, too; but he did not like the sun and the beautiful flowers, he said they were “abominable,” for he had never seen them. Inchelina had to sing for him; and when she sang “Frère Jacques, dormez vous?” he fell in love with her because of her beautiful voice; but he didn’t show it, for he was sober-minded and never made a spectacle of himself.
He had recently dug a passage from his own house to theirs, and he invited Inchelina and the field mouse to use it as often as they pleased. He told them not to be afraid of the dead bird in the corridor. It had died only a few days before. It was still whole and had all its feathers. By chance it had been buried in his passageway.
The mole took a piece of dry rotten wood in his mouth; it shone as brightly as fire in the darkness; then he led the way down through the long corridor. When they came to the place where the dead bird lay, the mole made a hole with his broad nose, up through the earth, so that light could come through. Almost blocking the passageway was a dead swallow, with its beautiful wings pressed close to its body, its feet almost hidden by feathers, and its head nestled under a wing. The poor bird undoubtedly had frozen to death. Inchelina felt a great sadness; she had loved all the birds that twittered and sang for her that summer. The mole kicked the bird with one of his short legs and said, “Now it has stopped chirping. What a misfortune it is to be born a bird. Thank God, none of my children will be born birds! All they can do is chirp, and then die of starvation when winter comes.”
“Yes, that’s what all sensible people think,” said the field mouse. “What does all that chirping lead to? Starvation and cold when winter comes. But I suppose they think it is romantic.”
Inchelina didn’t say anything, but when the mouse and mole had their backs turned, she leaned down and kissed the closed eye of the swallow. “Maybe that was one of the birds that sang so beautifully for me this summer,” she thought. “How much joy you gave me, beautiful little bird.”
The mole closed the hole through which the daylight had entered and then escorted the ladies home. That night Inchelina could not sleep; she rose and wove as large a blanket as she could, out of hay. She carried it down in the dark passage and covered the little bird with it. In the field mouse’s living room she had found bits of cotton; she tucked them under the swallow wherever she could, to protect it from the cold earth.
“Good-by, beautiful bird,” she said. “Good-by, and thank you for the songs you sang for me when it was summer and all the trees were green and the sun warmed us.”
She put her head on the bird’s breast; then she jumped up! Somethi
ng was ticking inside: it was the bird’s heart, for the swallow was not really dead, and now the warmth had revived it.
In the fall all the swallows fly to the warm countries. If one tarries too long and is caught by the first frost, he lies down on the ground as if he were dead, and the cold snow covers him.
Inchelina shook with fear. The swallow was huge to a girl so tiny that she only measured an inch. But she gathered her courage and pressed the blanket closer to the bird’s body. She even went to fetch the little mint leaf that she herself used as a cover and put it over the bird’s head.
The next night she sneaked down to the passageway again; the bird was better although still very weak. He opened his eyes just long enough to see Inchelina standing in the dark with a little piece of dry rotten wood in her hand, as a lamp.
“Thank you, you sweet little child,” said the sick swallow, “I feel so much better. I am not cold now. Soon I shall be strong again and can fly out into the sunshine.”
“Oh no,” she said. “It is cold and snowing outside now and you would freeze. Stay down here in your warm bed, I will nurse you.”
She brought the swallow water on a leaf. After he had drunk it, he told her his story. He had torn his wing on a rosebush, and therefore could not fly as swiftly as the other swallows, so he had stayed behind when the others left; then one morning he had fainted from cold. That was all he could remember. He did not know how he came to be in the mole’s passageway.
The bird stayed all winter. Inchelina took good care of him, grew very fond of him, and breathed not a word about him to either the mole or the field mouse, for she knew that they didn’t like the poor swallow.