itbegantogrowdarkalready;andsupposenightweretocomeoncompletely!wasshetobeleftsittingontheboughallnightlong?no,thelittlemaidcouldnotmakeuphermindtothat.'i'llstaywithyou,'shesaid,althoughshefeltanythingbuthappyinhermind.shecouldalmostfancyshedistinctlysawlittlegnomes,withtheirhigh-crownedhats,sittinginthebushes;andfurtherbackinthelongwalk,tallspectresappearedtobedancing.theycamenearerandnearer,andstretchedouttheirhandstowardsthetreeonwhichthedollsat;theylaughedscornfully,andpointedatherwiththeirfingers.oh,howfrightenedthelittlemaidwas!'butifonehasnotdoneanythingwrong,'shethought,'nothingevilcanharmone.iwonderifihavedoneanythingwrong?'andsheconsidered.'oh,yes!ilaughedatthepoorduckwiththeredragonherleg;shelimpedalongsofunnily,icouldnothelplaughing;butit'sasintolaughatanimals.'andshelookedupatthedoll.'didyoulaughattheducktoo?'sheasked;anditseemedasifthedollshookherhead."

twenty-secondevening

"ilookeddownupontyrol,"saidthemoon,"andmybeamscausedthedarkpinestothrowlongshadowsupontherocks.ilookedatthepicturesofst.christophercarryingtheinfantjesusthatarepaintedthereuponthewallsofthehouses,colossalfiguresreachingfromthegroundtotheroof.st.florianwasrepresentedpouringwaterontheburninghouse,andthelordhungbleedingonthegreatcrossbythewayside.tothepresentgenerationtheseareoldpictures,butisawwhentheywereputup,andmarkedhowonefollowedtheother.onthebrowofthemountainyonderisperched,likeaswallow'snest,alonelyconventofnuns.twoofthesistersstoodupinthetowertollingthebell;theywerebothyoung,andthereforetheirglancesflewoverthemountainoutintotheworld.atravellingcoachpassedbybelow,thepostillionwoundhishorn,andthepoornunslookedafterthecarriageforamomentwithamournfulglance,andateargleamedintheeyesoftheyoungerone.andthehornsoundedfaintandmorefaintly,andtheconventbelldrowneditsexpiringechoes."

twenty-thirdevening

hearwhatthemoontoldme."someyearsago,hereincopenhagen,ilookedthroughthewindowofameanlittleroom.thefatherandmotherslept,butthelittlesonwasnotasleep.isawthefloweredcottoncurtainsofthebedmove,andthechildpeepforth.atfirstithoughthewaslookingatthegreatclock,whichwasgailypaintedinredandgreen.atthetopsatacuckoo,belowhungtheheavyleadenweights,andthependulumwiththepolisheddiscofmetalwenttoandfro,andsaid'tick,tick.'butno,hewasnotlookingattheclock,butathismother'sspinningwheel,thatstoodjustunderneathit.thatwastheboy'sfavouritepieceoffurniture,buthedarednottouchit,forifhemeddledwithithegotarapontheknuckles.forhourstogether,whenhismotherwasspinning,hewouldsitquietlybyherside,watchingthemurmuringspindleandtherevolvingwheel,andashesathethoughtofmanythings.oh,ifhemightonlyturnthewheelhimself!fatherandmotherwereasleep;helookedatthem,andlookedatthespinningwheel,andpresentlyalittlenakedfootpeeredoutofthebed,andthenasecondfoot,andthentwolittlewhitelegs.therehestood.helookedroundoncemore,toseeiffatherandmotherwerestillasleep-yes,theyslept;andnowhecreptsoftly,softly,inhisshortlittlenightgown,tothespinningwheel,andbegantospin.thethreadflewfromthewheel,andthewheelwhirledfasterandfaster.ikissedhisfairhairandhisblueeyes,itwassuchaprettypicture.

"atthatmomentthemotherawoke.thecurtainshook,shelookedforth,andfanciedshesawagnomeorsomeotherkindoflittlespectre.'inheaven'sname!