shehasnohymn-bookinherhand.shesitstherewithheruglysorcery.letustearitinathousandpieces."

andthentheypressedtowardsher,andwouldhavedestroyedthecoatsofmail,butatthesamemomentelevenwildswansflewoverher,andalightedonthecart.thentheyflappedtheirlargewings,andthecrowddrewononesideinalarm.

"itisasignfromheaventhatsheisinnocent,"whisperedmanyofthem;buttheyventurednottosayitaloud.

astheexecutionerseizedherbythehand,toliftheroutofthecart,shehastilythrewtheelevencoatsofmailovertheswans,andtheyimmediatelybecameelevenhandsomeprinces;buttheyoungesthadaswan'swing,insteadofanarm;forshehadnotbeenabletofinishthelastsleeveofthecoat.

"nowimayspeak,"sheexclaimed."iaminnocent."

thenthepeople,whosawwhathappened,bowedtoher,asbeforeasaint;butshesanklifelessinherbrothers'arms,overcomewithsuspense,anguish,andpain.

"yes,sheisinnocent,"saidtheeldestbrother;andthenherelatedallthathadtakenplace;andwhilehespokethereroseintheairafragranceasfrommillionsofroses.everypieceoffaggotinthepilehadtakenroot,andthrewoutbranches,andappearedathickhedge,largeandhigh,coveredwithroses;whileaboveallbloomedawhiteandshiningflower,thatglitteredlikeastar.thisflowerthekingplucked,andplacedineliza'sbosom,whensheawokefromherswoon,withpeaceandhappinessinherheart.andallthechurchbellsrangofthemselves,andthebirdscameingreatdamarriageprocessionreturnedtothecastle,suchasnokinghadeverbeforeseen.

theend.

1872

fairytalesofhanschristianandersen

thewill-o-thewispisinthetown,

saysthemoorwoman

byhanschristianandersen

therewasamanwhoonceknewmanystories,buttheyhadslippedawayfromhim-sohesaid.thestorythatusedtovisithimofitsownaccordnolongercameandknockedathisdoor.andwhydiditcomenolonger?itistrueenoughthatfordaysandyearsthemanhadnotthoughtofit,hadnotexpectedittocomeandknock;andifhehadexpectedit,itwouldcertainlynothavecome;forwithouttherewaswar,andwithinwasthecareandsorrowthatwarbringswithit.

thestorkandtheswallowscamebackfromtheirlongjourney,fortheythoughtofnodanger;and,behold,whentheyarrived,thenestwasburnt,thehabitationsofmenwereburnt,thehedgeswereallindisorder,andeverythingseemedgone,andtheenemy'shorseswerestampingintheoldgraves.thosewerehard,gloomytimes,buttheycametoanend.

andnowtheywerepastandgone-sopeoplesaid;yetnostorycameandknockedatthedoor,orgaveanytidingsofitspresence.

"isupposeitmustbedead,orgoneawaywithmanyotherthings,"saidtheman.

butthestoryneverdies.andmorethanawholeyearwentby,andhelonged-oh,soverymuch!-forthestory.

"iwonderifthestorywillevercomebackagainandknock?"

andheremembereditsowellinallthevariousformsinwhichithadcometohim,sometimesyoungandcharming,likespringitself,sometimesasabeautifulmaiden,withawreathofthymeinherhair,andabeechenbranchinherhand,andwitheyesthatgleamedlikedeepwoodlandlakesinthebrightsunshine.

sometimesithadcometohimintheguiseofapeddler,andhadopeneditsboxandletsilverribboncomeflutteringout,withversesandinscriptionsofoldremembrances.

butitwasmostcharmingofallwhenitcameasanoldgrandmother,withsilveryhair,andsuchlarge,sensibleeyes.sheknewsowellhowtotellabouttheoldesttimes,longbeforetheprincessesspunwiththegoldenspindles,andthedragonslayoutsidethecastles,guardingthem.shetoldwithsuchanairoftruth,thatblackspotsdancedbeforetheeyesofallwhoheardher,andthefloorbecameblackwithhumanblood;terribletoseeandtohear,andyetsoentertaining,becausesuchalongtimehadpassedsinceitallhappened.

"williteverknockatmydooragain?"