FAIRY　TALES　OF　HANS　CHRISTIAN　ANDERSEN
  THE　BIRD　OF　POPULAR　SONG
  by　Hans　Christian　Andersen
  IT　is　winter…time。　The　earth　wears　a　snowy　garment；　and　looks　like
  marble　hewn　out　of　the　rock；　the　air　is　bright　and　clear；　the　wind
  is　sharp　as　a　well…tempered　sword；　and　the　trees　stand　like　branches
  of　white　coral　or　blooming　almond　twigs；　and　here　it　is　keen　as　on　the
  lofty　Alps。
  The　night　is　splendid　in　the　gleam　of　the　Northern　Lights；　and
  in　the　glitter　of　innumerable　twinkling　stars。
  But　we　sit　in　the　warm　room；　by　the　hot　stove；　and　talk　about
  the　old　times。　And　we　listen　to　this　story：
  By　the　open　sea　was　a　giant's　grave；　and　on　the　grave…mound　sat　at
  midnight　the　spirit　of　the　buried　hero；　who　had　been　a　king。　The
  golden　circlet　gleamed　on　his　brow；　his　hair　fluttered　in　the　wind；
  and　he　was　clad　in　steel　and　iron。　He　bent　his　head　mournfully；　and
  sighed　in　deep　sorrow；　as　an　unquiet　spirit　might　sigh。
  And　a　ship　came　sailing　by。　Presently　the　sailors　lowered　the
  anchor　and　landed。　Among　them　was　a　singer；　and　he　approached　the
  royal　spirit；　and　said；
  〃Why　mournest　thou；　and　wherefore　dost　thou　suffer　thus？〃
  And　the　dead　man　answered；
  〃No　one　has　sung　the　deeds　of　my　life；　they　are　dead　and
  forgotten。　Song　doth　not　carry　them　forth　over　the　lands；　nor　into　the
  hearts　of　men；　therefore　I　have　no　rest　and　no　peace。〃
  And　he　spoke　of　his　works；　and　of　his　warlike　deeds；　which　his
  contemporaries　had　known；　but　which　had　not　been　sung；　because　there
  was　no　singer　among　his　companions。
  Then　the　old　bard　struck　the　strings　of　his　harp；　and　sang　of
  the　youthful　courage　of　the　hero；　of　the　strength　of　the　man；　and　of
  the　greatness　of　his　good　deeds。　Then　the　face　of　the　dead　one　gleamed
  like　the　margin　of　the　cloud　in　the　moonlight。　Gladly　and　of　good
  courage；　the　form　arose　in　splendor　and　in　majesty；　and　vanished
  like　the　glancing　of　the　northern　light。　Nought　was　to　be　seen　but　the
  green　turfy　mound；　with　the　stones　on　which　no　Runic　record　has　been
  graven；　but　at　the　last　sound　of　the　harp　there　soared　over　the
  hill；　as　though　he　had　fluttered　from　the　harp；　a　little　bird；　a
  charming　singing…bird；　with　ringing　voice　of　the　thrush；　with　the
  moving　voice　pathos　of　the　human　heart；　with　a　voice　that　told　of
  home；　like　the　voice　that　is　heard　by　the　bird　of　passage。　The
  singing…bird　soared　away；　over　mountain　and　valley；　over　field　and
  wood…　he　was　the　Bird　of　Popular　Song；　who　never　dies。
  We　hear　his　song…　we　hear　it　now　in　the　room　while　the　white
  bees　are　swarming　without；　and　the　storm　clutches　the　windows。　The
  bird　sings　not　alone　the　requiem　of　heroes；　he　sings　also　sweet　gentle
  songs　of　love；　so　many　and　so　warm；　of　Northern　fidelity　and　truth。　He
  has　stories　in　words　and　in　tones；　he　has　proverbs　and　snatches　of
  proverbs；　songs　which；　like　Runes　laid　under　a　dead　man's　tongue；
  force　him　to　speak；　and　thus　Popular　Song　tells　of　the　land　of　his
  birth。
  In　the　old　heathen　days；　in　the　times　of　the　Vikings；　the
  popular　speech　was　enshrined　in　the　harp　of　the　bard。
  In　the　days　of　knightly　castles；　when　the　strongest　fist　held
  the　scales　of　justice；　when　only　might　was　right；　and　a　peasant　and
  a　dog　were　of　equal　importance；　where　did　the　Bird　of　Song　find
  shelter　and　protection？　Neither　violence　nor　stupidity　gave　him　a
  thought。
  But　in　the　gabled　window　of　the　knightly　castle；　the　lady　of　the
  castle　sat　with　the　parchment　roll　before　her；　and　wrote　down　the
  old　recollections　in　song　and　legend；　while　near　her　stood　the　old
  woman　from　the　wood；　and　the　travelling　peddler　who　went　wandering
  through　the　country。　As　these　told　their　tales；　there　fluttered　around
  them；　with　twittering　and　song；　the　Bird　of　Popular　Song；　who　never
  dies　so　long　as　the　earth　has　a　hill　upon　which　his　foot　may　rest。
  And　now　he　looks　in　upon　us　and　sings。　Without　are　the　night　and
  the　snow…storm。　He　lays　the　Runes　beneath　our　tongues；　and　we　know　the
  land　of　our　home。　Heaven　speaks　to　us　in　our　native　tongue；　in　the
  voice　of　the　Bird　of　Popular　Song。　The　old　remembrances　awake；　the
  faded　colors　glow　with　a　fresh　lustre；　and　story　and　song　pour　us　a
  blessed　draught　which　lifts　up　our　minds　and　our　thoughts；　so　that　the
  evening　becomes　as　a　Christmas　festival。
  The　snow…flakes　chase　each　other；　the　ice　cracks；　the　storm
  rules　without；　for　he　has　the　might；　he　is　lord…　but　not　the　LORD　OF
  ALL。
  It　is　winter　time。　The　wind　is　sharp　as　a　two…edged　sword；　the
  snow…flakes　chase　each　other；　it　seems　as　though　it　had　been　snowing
  for　days　and　weeks；　and　the　snow　lies　like　a　great　mountain　over　the
  whole　town；　like　a　heavy　dream　of　the　winter　night。　Everything　on
  the　earth　is　hidden　away；　only　the　golden　cross　of　the　church；　the
  symbol　of　faith；　arises　over　the　snow　grave；　and　gleams　in　the　blue
  air　and　in　the　bright　sunshine。
  And　over　the　buried　town　fly　the　birds　of　heaven；　the　small　and
  the　great；　they　twitter　and　they　sing　as　best　they　may；　each　bird　with
  his　beak。
  First　comes　the　band　of　sparrows：　they　pipe　at　every　trifle　in　the
  streets　and　lanes；　in　the　nests　and　the　houses；　they　have　stories　to
  tell　about　the　front　buildings　and　the　back　buildings。
  〃We　know　the　buried　town；〃　they　say；　〃everything　living　in　it　is
  piep！　piep！　piep！〃
  The　black　ravens　and　crows　flew　on　over　the　white　snow。
  〃Grub；　grub！〃　they　cried。　〃There's　something　to　be　got　down　there；
  something　to　swallow；　and　that's　most　important。　That's　the　opinion　of
  most　of　them　down　there；　and　the　opinion　is　goo…goo…good！〃
  The　wild　swans　come　flying　on　whirring　pinions；　and　sing　of　the
  noble　and　the　great；　that　will　still　sprout　in　the　hearts　of　men；　down
  in　the　town　which　is　resting　beneath　its　snowy　veil。
  No　death　is　there…　life　reigns　yonder；　we　hear　it　on　the　notes
  that　swell　onward　like　the　tones　of　the　church　organ；　which　seize　us
  like　sounds　from　the　elf…hill；　like　the　songs　of　Ossian；　like　the
  rushing　swoop　of　the　wandering　spirits'　wings。　What　harmony！　That
  harmony　speaks　to　our　hearts；　and　lifts　up　our　souls！　It　is　the　Bird
  of　Popular　Song　whom　we　hear。
  And　at　this　moment　the　warm　breath　of　heaven　blows　down　from　the
  sky。　There　are　gaps　in　the　snowy　mountains；　the　sun　shines　into　the
  clefts；　spring　is　coming；　the　birds　are　returning；　and　new　races　are
  coming　with　the　same　home　sounds　in　their　hearts。
  Hear　the　story　of　the　year：　〃The　night　of　the　snow…storm；　the
  heavy　dream　of　the　winter　night；　all　shall　be　dissolved；　all　shall
  rise　again　in　the　beauteous　notes　of　the　Bird　of　Popular　Song；　who
  never　dies！〃
  THE　END
  。