第一篇：安徒生童话：隐存着并不就是被忘却(英)
安徒生童话：隐存着并不就是被忘却(英)
“Delaying Is Not Forgetting”
by Hans Christian Andersen（1866）
THERE was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with a drawbridge which was but seldom let down：—not all guests are good people.Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through，and to pour down boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy，should he approach.Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilings of beams，and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke which rose up from the chimney fire where the large，damp logs of wood smouldered.On the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and proud ladies in gorgeous dresses； the most stately of all walked about alive.She was called Meta Mogen； she was the mistress of the house，to her belonged the castle.Towards the evening robbers came； they killed three of her people and also the yard-dog，and attached Mrs.Meta to the kennel by the chain，while they themselves made good cheer in the hall and drank the wine and the good ale out of her cellar.Mrs.Meta was now on the chain，she could not even bark.But lo！the servant of one of the robbers secretly approached her； they must not see it，otherwise they would have killed him.“Mrs.Meta Mogen，” said the fellow，“do you still remember how my father，when your husband was still alive，had to ride on the wooden horse？ You prayed for him，but it was no good，he was to ride until his limbs were paralysed； but you stole down to him，as I steal now to you，you yourself put little stones under each of his feet that he might have support，nobody saw it，or they pretended not to see it，for you were then the young gracious mistress.My father has told me this，and I have not forgotten it！Now I will free you，Mrs.Meta Mogen！”
Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rain and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.“Thus the small service done to the old man was richly rewarded！” said Meta Mogen.“Delaying is not forgetting，” said the fellow.The robbers were hanged.There was an old mansion，it is still there； it did not belong to Mrs.Meta Mogen，it belonged to another old noble family.We are now in the present time.The sun is shining on the gilt knob of the tower，little wooded islands lie like bouquets on the water，and wild swans are swimming round them.In the
garden grow roses； the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal，she beams with joy，the joy of good deeds： however，not done in the wide world，but in her heart，and what is preserved there is not forgotten.Delaying is not forgetting！
Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in the field.Therein lives a poor paralysed girl； the window of her little room looks northward，the sun does not enter here.The girl can only see a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence.But to-day the sun shines here—the warm，beautiful sun of God is within the little room； it comes from the south through the new window，where formerly the wall was.The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see the wood and the lake； the world had become so large，so beautiful，and only through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.“The word was so easy，the deed so small，” she said，“the joy it afforded me was infinitely great and sweet！”
And therefore she does many a good deed，thinks of all in the humble cottages and in the rich mansions，where there are also afflicted ones.It is concealed and hidden，but God does not forget it.Delayed is not forgotten！
An old house stood there； it was in the large town with its busy traffic.There are rooms and halls in it，but we do not enter them，we remain in the kitchen，where it is warm and light，clean and tidy； the copper utensils are shining，the table as if polished with beeswax； the sink looks like a freshly scoured meatboard.All this a single servant has done，and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go to church； she wears a bow on her cap，a black bow，that signifies mourning.But she has no one to mourn，neither father nor mother，neither relations nor sweetheart.She is a poor girl.One day she was engaged to a poor fellow； they loved each other dearly.One day he came to her and said：
“We both have nothing！The rich widow over the way in the basement has made advances to me； she will make me rich，but you are in my heart； what do you advise me to do？”
“I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your happiness，” said the girl.“Be kind and good to her，but remember this； from the hour we part we shall never see each other again.”
Years passed； then one day she met the old friend and sweetheart in the street； he looked ill and miserable，and she could not help asking him，“How are you？”
“Rich and prospering in every respect，” he said； “the woman is brave and good，but you are in my heart.I have fought the battle，it will soon be ended； we shall not see each other again now until we meet before God！”
A week has passed； this morning his death was in the newspaper，that is the reason of the girl's mourning！Her old sweetheart is dead and has left a wife and three step-children，as the paper says； it sounds as if there is a crack，but the metal is pure.The black bow signifies mourning，the girl's face points to the same in a still higher degree； it is preserved in the heart and will never be forgotten.Delaying is not forgetting！
These are three stories you see，three leaves on the same stalk.Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves？In the little heartbook are many more of them.Delaying is not forgetting！
第二篇：安徒生童话：“真可爱”(英)
安徒生童话：“真可爱”(英)
Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind
by Hans Christian Andersen（1860）
THERE was once a sculptor，named Alfred，who having won the large gold medal and obtained a travelling 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 Zealand.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 every one listened to him with pleasure，not unmingled with awe； but none felt so much respect for him as did the elderly widow of a naval officer.She seemed，so far as Mr.Alfred was concerned，to be like a piece of fresh blotting-paper that absorbed all he said and asked for more.She was very appreciative，and incredibly ignorant—a kind of female Gaspar Hauser.“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，do 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； “but you enter on a large open space，in the centre 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 considerately，as if the question had been a different one，“No； 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.“Oh，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 three 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 favored person who was to accompany them to Italy.“Yes，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 Mr.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 Kala.Her name was really Karen Malena，and these two names had been contracted into the one name Kala.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 power seemed to lie in the depths of those dark eyes！The young man felt the truth of the proverb，“Still waters run deep：” and his heart had sunk into their depths.He often talked of his adventures，and the mamma 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？”
“Whole cities have been destroyed，” he replied； “for instance，Herculaneum and Pompeii.”
“Oh，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 mamma，who had been over-powered with the appearance of the colored plates，threw a glance at the pale drawing and cried in astonishment，“What，did you see it throw up white fire？”
For a moment，Alfred's respect for Kala's mamma underwent a sudden shock，and lessened considerably； but，dazzled by the light which surrounded Kala，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 Kala's mamma had the best of all possessions； namely，Kala herself.Alfred and Kala were betrothed，which was a very natural result； and the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little town.Mama purchased thirty copies of the paper，that she might cut out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances.The betrothed pair were very happy，and the mother was happy too.She said it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwalsden.“You are a true successor of Thorwalsden，” she said to Alfred； and it seemed to him as if，in this instance，mamma had said a clever thing.Kala 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 Kala as well as of her mother.They sat to him accordingly，and saw how he moulded 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 mould the clay myself，” he replied.“Ah，yes，you are always so polite，” said mamma，with a smile； and Kala 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.Kala stood silent，but nodded in approbation of what he said，while mamma-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.”
Kala's beauty had a firm hold on Alfred； it filled his soul，and held a mastery over him.Beauty beamed from Kala'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 bride's-maids and wedding presents，all duly mentioned in the wedding speech.Mamma-in-law had set up Thorwalsden's bust at the end of the table，attired in a dressing-gown； it was her fancy that he should be a guest.Songs 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 songs.“Ah，that is some of your mythologies，” said mamma-in-law.Next day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen，where they were to live； mamma-in-law accompanied them，to attend to the “coarse work，” as she always called the domestic arrangements.Kala looked like a doll in a doll's house，for everything was bright and new，and so fine.There they sat，all three； 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，the gilding 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 the stupidity of the whole affair.The young married pair often sat together hand in hand； he would talk，but she 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 Sophy，one of her friends，came to pay them a visit.Sophy was not，pretty.She was，however，quite free from any physical deformity，although Kala used to say she was a little crooked； but no eye，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 the want of a change of air，and consequently the young couple and their mother travelled to Italy.“Thank heaven we are at home again within our own four walls，” said mamma-in-law and daughter both，on their return after a year's absence.“There is no real pleasure in travelling，” said mamma； “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 travelling，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，mamma，” said Kala.“Yes，indeed，” she replied，“no such a thing as a respectable meat soup—their cookery is miserable stuff.”
The journey had also tired Kala； but she was always fatigued，that was the worst of it.So they sent for Sophy，and she was taken into the house to reside with them，and her presence there was a great advantage.Mamma-in-law acknowledged that Sophy 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-hearted，faithful girl； she showed that thoroughly while Kala 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 Kala 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 Kala was a perfect beauty.”
Alfred wept，and mamma wept，and they both wore mourning.The black dress suited mamma very well，and she wore mourning the longest.She had also to experience another grief in seeing Alfred marry again，marry Sophy，who was nothing at all to look at.“He's gone to the very extreme，” said mamma-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.”
“'Pygmalion loved his Galatea，' was in the song they sung 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 and won till now.You came，Sophy，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 Kala！our life was but as a meeting by the way-side； 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 Sophy，“nor spoken like a Christian.In a future state，where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage，but where，as you say，souls are attracted to each other by sympathy； there 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！'”
第三篇：安徒生童话：墨水笔和墨水瓶(英)
安徒生童话：墨水笔和墨水瓶(英)
The Pen and the Inkstand
by Hans Christian Andersen（1860）
IN a poet's room，where his inkstand stood on the table，the remark was once made，“It is wonderful what can be brought out of an inkstand.What will come next？ It is indeed wonderful.”
“Yes，certainly，” said the inkstand to the pen，and to the other articles that stood on the table； “that's what I always say.It is wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me.It's quite incredible，and I really don't know what is coming next when that man dips his pen into me.One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper，and what cannot half a page contain？ From me，all the works of a poet are produced； all those imaginary characters whom people fancy they have known or met.All the deep feeling，the humor，and the vivid pictures of nature.I myself don't understand how it is，for I am not acquainted with nature，but it is certainly in me.From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of troops of charming maidens，and of brave knights on prancing steeds； of the halt and the blind，and I know not what more，for I assure you I never think of these things.”
“There you are right，” said the pen，“for you don't think at all； if you did，you would see that you can only provide the means.You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells in me，and what I wish to bring to light.It is the pen that writes： no man doubts that； and，indeed，most people understand as much about poetry as an old inkstand.”
“You have had very little experience，” replied the inkstand.“You have hardly been in service a week，and are already half worn out.Do you imagine you are a poet？ You are only a servant，and before you came I had many like you，some of the goose family，and others of English manufacture.I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel one.I have had both sorts in my service，and I shall have many more when he comes—the man who performs the mechanical part—and writes down what he obtains from me.I should like to know what will be the next thing he gets out of me.”
“Inkpot！” exclaimed the pen contemptuously.Late in the evening the poet came home.He had been to a concert，and had been quite enchanted with the admirable performance of a famous violin player whom he had heard there.The performer had produced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes sounded like tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls； sometimes like the birds twittering in chorus，and then rising and swelling in sound like the wind through the fir-trees.The poet felt as if his own heart were weeping，but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman's voice.It seemed not only the strings，but every part of the instrument from which these sounds were produced.It was a wonderful performance and a difficult piece，and yet the bow seemed to glide across the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who tried.Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independently of their master who guided them； it was as if soul and spirit had been breathed into the instrument，so the audience forgot the performer in the beautiful sounds he produced.Not so the poet； he remembered him，and named him，and wrote down his thoughts on the subject.“How foolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their performance，and yet we men often commit that folly.The poet，the artist，the man of science in his laboratory，the general，—we all do it； and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses； to Him alone the honor is due.We have nothing of ourselves of which we should be proud.” Yes，this is what the poet wrote down.He wrote it in the form of a parable，and called it “The Master and the Instruments.”
“That is what you have got，madam，” said the pen to the inkstand，when the two were alone again.“Did you hear him read aloud what I had written down？”
“Yes，what I gave you to write，” retorted the inkstand.“That was a cut at you because of your conceit.To think that you could not understand that you were being quizzed.I gave you a cut from within me.Surely I must know my own satire.”
“Ink-pitcher！” cried the pen.“Writing-stick！” retorted the inkstand.And each of them felt satisfied that he had given a good answer.It is pleasing to be convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply； it is something to make you sleep well，and they both slept well upon it.But the poet did not sleep.Thoughts rose up within him like the tones of the violin，falling like pearls，or rushing like the strong wind through the forest.He understood his own heart in these thoughts； they were as a ray from the mind of the Great Master of all minds.“To Him be all the honor.”
第四篇：安徒生童话：癞蛤蟆(英)
安徒生童话：癞蛤蟆(英)
The Toad
by Hans Christian Andersen（1866）
THE well was deep，and therefore the rope had to be a long one； it was heavy work turning the handle when any one had to raise a bucketful of water over the edge of the well.Though the water was clear，the sun never looked down far enough into the well to mirror itself in the waters； but as far as its beams could reach，green things grew forth between the stones in the sides of the well.Down below dwelt a family of the Toad race.They had，in fact，come head-over-heels down the well，in the person of the old Mother-Toad，who was still alive.The green Frogs，who had been established there a long time，and swam about in the water，called them “well-guests.” But the new-comers seemed determined to stay where they were，for they found it very agreeable living “in a dry place，” as they called the wet stones.The Mother-Frog had once been a traveller.She happened to be in the water-bucket when it was drawn up，but the light became too strong for her，and she got a pain in her eyes.Fortunately she scrambled out of the bucket； but she fell into the water with a terrible flop，and had to lie sick for three days with pains in her back.She certainly had not much to tell of the things up above，but she knew this，and all the Frogs knew it，that the well was not all the world.The Mother-Toad might have told this and that，if she had chosen，but she never answered when they asked her anything，and so they left off asking.“She's thick，and fat and ugly，” said the young green Frogs； “and her children will be just as ugly as she is.”
“That may be，” retorted the mother-Toad，“but one of them has a jewel in his head，or else I have the jewel.”
The young frogs listened and stared； and as these words did not please them，they made grimaces and dived down under the water.But the little Toads kicked up their hind legs from mere pride，for each of them thought that he must have the jewel； and then they sat and held their heads quite still.But at length they asked what it was that made them so proud，and what kind of a thing a jewel might be.“Oh，it is such a splendid and precious thing，that I cannot describe it，” said the Mother-Toad.“It's something which one carries about for one's own pleasure，and that makes other people angry.But don't ask me any questions，for I shan't answer you.”
“Well，I haven't got the jewel，” said the smallest of the Toads； she was as ugly as a toad can be.“Why should I have such a precious thing And if it makes others angry，it can't give me
any pleasure.No，I only wish I could get to the edge of the well，and look out； it must be beautiful up there.”
“You'd better stay where you are，” said the old Mother-Toad，“for you know everything here，and you can tell what you have.Take care of the bucket，for it will crush you to death； and even if you get into it safely，you may fall out.And it's not every one who falls so cleverly as I did，and gets away with whole legs and whole bones.”
“Quack！” said the little Toad； and that's just as if one of us were to say，“Aha！”
She had an immense desire to get to the edge of the well，and to look over； she felt such a longing for the green，up there； and the next morning，when it chanced that the bucket was being drawn up，filled with water，and stopped for a moment just in front of the stone on which the Toad sat，the little creature's heart moved within it，and our Toad jumped into the filled bucket，which presently was drawn to the top，and emptied out.“Ugh，you beast！” said the farm laborer who emptied the bucket，when he saw the toad.“You're the ugliest thing I've seen for one while.” And he made a kick with his wooden shoe at the toad，which just escaped being crushed by managing to scramble into the nettles which grew high by the well's brink.Here she saw stem by stem，but she looked up also； the sun shone through the leaves，which were quite transparent； and she felt as a person would feel who steps suddenly into a great forest，where the sun looks in between the branches and leaves.“It's much nicer here than down in the well！I should like to stay here my whole life long！” said the little Toad.So she lay there for an hour，yes，for two hours.“I wonder what is to be found up here As I have come so far，I must try to go still farther.” And so she crawled on as fast as she could crawl，and got out upon the highway，where the sun shone upon her，and the dust powdered her all over as she marched across the way.“I've got to a dry place.now，and no mistake，” said the Toad.“It's almost too much of a good thing here； it tickles one so.”
She came to the ditch； and forget-me-nots were growing there，and meadow-sweet； and a very little way off was a hedge of whitethorn，and elder bushes grew there，too，and bindweed with white flowers.Gay colors were to be seen here，and a butterfly，too，was flitting by.The Toad thought it was a flower which had broken loose that it might look about better in the world，which was quite a natural thing to do.“If one could only make such a journey as that！” said the Toad.“Croak！how capital that would be.”
Eight days and eight nights she stayed by the well，and experienced no want of provisions.On the ninth day she thought，“Forward！onward！” But what could she find more charming and beautiful Perhaps a little toad or a few green frogs.During the last night there had been a
sound borne on the breeze，as if there were cousins in the neighborhood.“It's a glorious thing to live！glorious to get out of the well，and to lie among the stinging-nettles，and to crawl along the dusty road.But onward，onward！that we may find frogs or a little toad.We can't do without that； nature alone is not enough for one.” And so she went forward on her journey.She came out into the open field，to a great pond，round about which grew reeds； and she walked into it.“It will be too damp for you here，” said the Frogs； “but you are very welcome！Are you a he or a she But it doesn't matter； you are equally welcome.”
And she was invited to the concert in the evening—the family concert； great enthusiasm and thin voices； we know the sort of thing.No refreshments were given，only there was plenty to drink，for the whole pond was free.“Now I shall resume my journey，” said the little Toad； for she always felt a longing for something better.She saw the stars shining，so large and so bright，and she saw the moon gleaming； and then she saw the sun rise，and mount higher and higher.“Perhaps after all，I am still in a well，only in a larger well.I must get higher yet； I feel a great restlessness and longing.” And when the moon became round and full，the poor creature thought，“I wonder if that is the bucket which will be let down，and into which I must step to get higher up Or is the sun the great bucket How great it is！how bright it is！It can take up all.I must look out，that I may not miss the opportunity.Oh，how it seems to shine in my head！I don't think the jewel can shine brighter.But I haven't the jewel； not that I cry about that—no，I must go higher up，into splendor and joy！I feel so confident，and yet I am afraid.It's a difficult step to take，and yet it must be taken.Onward，therefore，straight onward！”
She took a few steps，such as a crawling animal may take，and soon found herself on a road beside which people dwelt； but there were flower gardens as well as kitchen gardens.And she sat down to rest by a kitchen garden.“What a number of different creatures there are that I never knew！and how beautiful and great the world is！But one must look round in it，and not stay in one spot.” And then she hopped into the kitchen garden.“How green it is here！how beautiful it is here！”
“I know that，” said the Caterpillar，on the leaf，“my leaf is the largest here.It hides half the world from me，but I don't care for the world.”
“Cluck，cluck！” And some fowls came.They tripped about in the cabbage garden.The
Fowl who marched at the head of them had a long sight，and she spied the Caterpillar on the green leaf，and pecked at it，so that the Caterpillar fell on the ground，where it twisted and writhed.The Fowl looked at it first with one eye and then with the other，for she did not know what the end of this writhing would be.“It doesn't do that with a good will，” thought the Fowl，and lifted up her head to peck at the Caterpillar.The Toad was so horrified at this，that she came crawling straight up towards the Fowl.“Aha，it has allies，” quoth the Fowl.“Just look at the crawling thing！” And then the Fowl turned away.“I don't care for the little green morsel； it would only tickle my throat.” The other fowls took the same view of it，and they all turned away together.“I writhed myself free，” said the Caterpillar.“What a good thing it is when one has presence of mind！But the hardest thing remains to be done，and that is to get on my leaf again.Where is it”
And the little Toad came up and expressed her sympathy.She was glad that in her ugliness she had frightened the fowls.“What do you mean by that” cried the Caterpillar.“I wriggled myself free from the Fowl.You are very disagreeable to look at.Cannot I be left in peace on my own property Now I smell cabbage； now I am near my leaf.Nothing is so beautiful as property.But I must go higher up.”
“Yes，higher up，” said the little Toad； “higher-up！She feels just as I do； but she's not in a good humor to-day.That's because of the fright.We all want to go higher up.” And she looked up as high as ever she could.The stork sat in his nest on the roof of the farm-house.He clapped with his beak，and the Mother-stork clapped with hers.“How high up they live！” thought the Toad.“If one could only get as high as that！”
In the farm-house lived two young students； the one was a poet and the other a scientific searcher into the secrets of nature.The one sang and wrote joyously of everything that God had created，and how it was mirrored in his heart.He sang it out clearly，sweetly，richly，in well-sounding verses； while the other investigated created matter itself，and even cut it open where need was.He looked upon God's creation as a great sum in arithmetic—subtracted，multiplied，and tried to know it within and without，and to talk with understanding concerning it； and that was a very sensible thing； and he spoke joyously and cleverly of it.They were good，joyful men，those two，“There sits a good specimen of a toad，” said the naturalist.“I must have that fellow in a bottle of spirits.”
“You have two of them already，” replied the poet.“Let the thing sit there and enjoy its life.”
“But it's so wonderfully ugly，” persisted the first.“Yes，if we could find the jewel in its head，” said the poet，“I too should be for cutting it open.”
“A jewel！” cried the naturalist.“You seem to know a great deal about natural history.”
“But is there not something beautiful in the popular belief that just as the toad is the ugliest of animals，it should often carry the most precious jewel in its head Is it not just the same thing with men What a jewel that was that Aesop had，and still more，Socrates！”
The Toad did not hear any more，nor did she understand half of what she had heard.The two friends walked on，and thus she escaped the fate of being bottled up in spirits.“Those two also were speaking of the jewel，” said the Toad to herself.“What a good thing that I have not got it！I might have been in a very disagreeable position.”
Now there was a clapping on the roof of the farm-house.Father-Stork was making a speech to his family，and his family was glancing down at the two young men in the kitchen garden.“Man is the most conceited creature！” said the Stork.“Listen how their jaws are wagging； and for all that they can't clap properly.They boast of their gifts of eloquence and their language！Yes，a fine language truly！Why，it changes in every day's journey we make.One of them doesn't understand another.Now，we can speak our language over the whole earth—up in the North and in Egypt.And then men are not able to fly，moreover.They rush along by means of an invention they call 'railway；' but they often break their necks over it.It makes my beak turn cold when I think of it.The world could get on without men.We could do without them very well，so long as we only keep frogs and earth-worms.”
“That was a powerful speech，” thought the little Toad.“What a great man that is yonder！and how high he sits！Higher than ever I saw any one sit yet； and how he can swim！” she cried，as the Stork soared away through the air with outspread pinions.And the Mother-Stork began talking in the nest，and told about Egypt and the waters of the Nile，and the incomparable mud that was to be found in that strange land； and all this sounded new and very charming to the little Toad.“I must go to Egypt！” said she.“If the Stork or one of his young ones would only take me！I would oblige him in return.Yes，I shall get to Egypt，for I feel so happy！All the longing and all the pleasure that I feel is much better than having a jewel in one's head.”
And it was just she who had the jewel.That jewel was the continual striving and desire to go upward—ever upward.It gleamed in her head，gleamed in joy，beamed brightly in her longing.Then，suddenly，up came the Stork.He had seen the Toad in the grass，and stooped down and seized the little creature anything but gently.The Stork's beak pinched her，and the wind whistled； it was not exactly agreeable，but she was going upward—upward towards Egypt— and she knew it； and that was why her eyes gleamed，and a spark seemed to fly out of them.“Quunk！—ah！”
The body was dead—the Toad was killed！But the spark that had shot forth from her eyes； what became of that
The sunbeam took it up； the sunbeam carried the jewel from the head of the toad.Whither
Ask not the naturalist； rather ask the poet.He will tell it thee under the guise of a fairy tale； and the Caterpillar on the cabbage，and the Stork family belong to the story.Think！the Caterpillar is changed，and turns into a beautiful butterfly； the Stork family flies over mountains and seas，to the distant Africa，and yet finds the shortest way home to the same country—to the same roof.Nay，that is almost too improbable； and yet it is true.You may ask the naturalist，he will confess it is so； and you know it yourself，for you have seen it.But the jewel in the head of the toad
Seek it in the sun； see it there if you can.The brightness is too dazzling there.We have not yet such eyes as can see into the glories which God has created，but we shall receive them by-and-by； and that will be the most beautiful story of all，and we shall all have our share in it.
第五篇：安徒生童话：教堂古钟(英)
安徒生童话：教堂古钟(英)
The Old Church Bell
（Written for the Schiller Album）
by Hans Christian Andersen（1861）
IN the country of Wurtemburg，in Germany，where the acacias grow by the public road，where the apple-trees and the pear-trees in autumn bend to the earth with the weight of the precious fruit，lies the little town of Marbach.As is often the case with many of these towns，it is charmingly situated on the banks of the river Neckar，which rushes rapidly by，passing villages，old knights' castles，and green vineyards，till its waters mingle with those of the stately Rhine.It was late in the autumn； the vine-leaves still hung upon the branches of the vines，but they were already tinted with red and gold； heavy showers fell on the surrounding country，and the cold autumn wind blew sharp and strong.It was not at all pleasant weather for the poor.The days grew shorter and more gloomy，and，dark as it was out of doors in the open air，it was still darker within the small，old-fashioned houses of the village.The gable end of one of these houses faced the street，and with its small，narrow windows，presented a very mean appearance.The family who dwelt in it were also very poor and humble，but they treasured the fear of God in their innermost hearts.And now He was about to send them a child.It was the hour of the mother's sorrow，when there pealed forth from the church tower the sound of festive bells.In that solemn hour the sweet and joyous chiming filled the hearts of those in the humble dwelling with thankfulness and trust； and when，amidst these joyous sounds，a little son was born to them，the words of prayer and praise arose from their overflowing hearts，and their happiness seemed to ring out over town and country in the liquid tones of the church bells' chime.The little one，with its bright eyes and golden hair，had been welcomed joyously on that dark November day.Its parents kissed it lovingly，and the father wrote these words in the Bible，“On the tenth of November，1759，God sent us a son.” And a short time after，when the child had been baptized，the names he had received were added，“John Christopher Frederick.”
And what became of the little lad？—the poor boy of the humble town of Marbach？ Ah，indeed，there was no one who thought or supposed，not even the old church bell which had been the first to sound and chime for him，that he would be the first to sing the beautiful song of “The Bell.” The boy grew apace，and the world advanced with him.While he was yet a child，his parents removed from Marbach，and went to reside in another town； but their dearest friends remained behind at Marbach，and therefore sometimes the mother and her son would start on a fine day to pay a visit to the little town.The boy was at this time about six years old，and already knew a great many stories out of the Bible，and several religious psalms.While seated in the evening on his little cane-chair，he had often heard his father read from Gellert's fables，and sometimes from Klopstock's grand poem，“The Messiah.” He and his sister，two years older than himself，had often wept scalding tears over the story of Him who suffered death on the cross for us all.On his first visit to Marbach，the town appeared to have changed but very little，and it was not far enough away to be forgotten.The house，with its pointed gable，narrow windows，overhanging walls and stories，projecting one beyond another，looked just the same as in former times.But in the churchyard there were several new graves； and there also，in the grass，close by the wall，stood the old church bell！It had been taken down from its high position，in consequence of a crack in the metal which prevented it from ever chiming again，and a new bell now occupied its place.The mother and son were walking in the churchyard when they discovered the old bell，and they stood still to look at it.Then the mother reminded her little boy of what a useful bell this had been for many hundred years.It had chimed for weddings and for christenings； it had tolled for funerals，and to give the alarm in case of fire.With every event in the life of man the bell had made its voice heard.His mother also told him how the chiming of that old bell had once filled her heart with joy and confidence，and that in the midst of the sweet tones her child had been given to her.And the boy gazed on the large，old bell with the deepest interest.He bowed his head over it and kissed it，old，thrown away，and cracked as it was，and standing there amidst the grass and nettles.The boy never forgot what his mother told him，and the tones of the old bell reverberated in his heart till he reached manhood.In such sweet remembrance was the old bell cherished by the boy，who grew up in poverty to be tall and slender，with a freckled complexion and hair almost red； but his eyes were clear and blue as the deep sea，and what was his career to be？ His career was to be good，and his future life enviable.We find him taking high honors at the military school in the division commanded by the member of a family high in position，and this was an honor，that is to say，good luck.He wore gaiters，stiff collars，and powdered hair，and by this he was recognized； and，indeed，he might be known by the word of command—“March！halt！front！”
The old church bell had long been quite forgotten，and no one imagined it would ever again be sent to the melting furnace to make it as it was before.No one could possibly have foretold this.Equally impossible would it have been to believe that the tones of the old bell still echoed in the heart of the boy from Marbach； or that one day they would ring out loud enough and strong enough to be heard all over the world.They had already been heard in the narrow space behind the school-wall，even above the deafening sounds of “March！halt！front！” They had chimed so loudly in the heart of the youngster，that he had sung them to his companions，and their tones resounded to the very borders of the country.He was not a free scholar in the military school，neither was he provided with clothes or food.But he had his number，and his own peg； for everything here was ordered like clockwork，which we all know is of the greatest utility—people get on so much better together when their position and duties are understood.It is by pressure that a jewel is stamped.The pressure of regularity and discipline here stamped the jewel，which in the future the world so well knew.In the chief town of the province a great festival was being celebrated.The light streamed forth from thousands of lamps，and the rockets shot upwards towards the sky，filling the air with showers of colored fiery sparks.A record of this bright display will live in the memory of man，for through it the pupil in the military school was in tears and sorrow.He had dared to attempt to reach foreign territories unnoticed，and must therefore give up fatherland，mother，his dearest friends，all，or sink down into the stream of common life.The old church bell had still some comfort； it stood in the shelter of the church wall in Marbach，once so elevated，now quite forgotten.The wind roared around it，and could have readily related the story of its origin and of its sweet chimes，and the wind could also tell of him to whom he had brought fresh air when，in the woods of a neighboring country，he had sunk down exhausted with fatigue，with no other worldly possessions than hope for the future，and a written leaf from “Fiesco.” The wind could have told that his only protector was an artist，who，by reading each leaf to him，made it plain； and that they amused themselves by playing at nine-pins together.The wind could also describe the pale fugitive，who，for weeks and months，lay in a wretched little road-side inn，where the landlord got drunk and raved，and where the merry-makers had it all their own way.And he，the pale fugitive，sang of the ideal.For many heavy days and dark nights the heart must suffer to enable it to endure trial and temptation； yet，amidst it all，would the minstrel sing.Dark days and cold nights also passed over the old bell，and it noticed them not； but the bell in the man's heart felt it to be a gloomy time.What would become of this young man，and what would become of the old bell？
The old bell was，after a time，carried away to a greater distance than any one，even the warder in the bell tower，ever imagined； and the bell in the breast of the young man was heard in countries where his feet had never wandered.The tones went forth over the wide ocean to every part of the round world.We will now follow the career of the old bell.It was，as we have said，carried far away from Marbach and sold as old copper； then sent to Bavaria to be melted down in a furnace.And then what happened？
In the royal city of Bavaria，many years after the bell had been removed from the tower and melted down，some metal was required for a monument in honor of one of the most celebrated characters which a German people or a German land could produce.And now we see how wonderfully things are ordered.Strange things sometimes happen in this world.In Denmark，in one of those green islands where the foliage of the beech-woods rustles in the wind，and where many Huns' graves may be seen，was another poor boy born.He wore wooden shoes，and when his father worked in a ship-yard，the boy，wrapped up in an old worn-out shawl，carried his dinner to him every day.This poor child was now the pride of his country； for the sculptured marble，the work of his hands，had astonished the world.1 To him was offered the honor of forming from the clay，a model of the figure of him whose name，“John Christopher Frederick，” had been written by his father in the Bible.The bust was cast in bronze，and part of the metal used for this purpose was the old church bell，whose tones had died away from the memory of those at home and elsewhere.The metal，glowing with heat，flowed into the mould，and formed the head and bust of the statue which was unveiled in the square in front of the old castle.The statue represented in living，breathing reality，the form of him who was born in poverty，the boy from Marbach，the pupil of the military school，the fugitive who struggled against poverty and oppression，from the outer world； Germany's great and immortal poet，who sung of Switzerland's deliverer，William Tell，and of the heaven-inspired Maid of Orleans.It was a beautiful sunny day； flags were waving from tower and roof in royal Stuttgart，and the church bells were ringing a joyous peal.One bell was silent； but it was illuminated by the bright sunshine which streamed from the head and bust of the renowned figure，of which it formed a part.On this day，just one hundred years had passed since the day on which the chiming of the old church bell at Marbach had filled the mother's heart with trust and joy—the day on which her child was born in poverty，and in a humble home； the same who，in after-years，became rich，became the noble woman-hearted poet，a blessing to the world—the glorious，the sublime，the immortal bard，John Christoper Frederick Schiller！
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