1872
  FAIRY　TALES　OF　HANS　CHRISTIAN　ANDERSEN
  THE　WILL…O…THE　WISP　IS　IN　THE　TOWN；
  SAYS　THE　MOOR　WOMAN
  by　Hans　Christian　Andersen
  THERE　was　a　man　who　once　knew　many　stories；　but　they　had　slipped　away　from　him…　so　he　said。　The　Story　that　used　to　visit　him　of　its　own　accord　no　longer　came　and　knocked　at　his　door。　And　why　did　it　come　no　longer？　It　is　true　enough　that　for　days　and　years　the　man　had　not　thought　of　it；　had　not　expected　it　to　come　and　knock；　and　if　he　had　expected　it；　it　would　certainly　not　have　come；　for　without　there　was　war；　and　within　was　the　care　and　sorrow　that　war　brings　with　it。
  The　stork　and　the　swallows　came　back　from　their　long　journey；
  for　they　thought　of　no　danger；　and；　behold；　when　they　arrived；　the
  nest　was　burnt；　the　habitations　of　men　were　burnt；　the　hedges　were　all
  in　disorder；　and　everything　seemed　gone；　and　the　enemy's　horses　were　stamping　in　the　old　graves。　Those　were　hard；　gloomy　times；　but　they　came　to　an　end。
  And　now　they　were　past　and　gone…　so　people　said；　yet　no　Story　came
  and　knocked　at　the　door；　or　gave　any　tidings　of　its　presence。
  〃I　suppose　it　must　be　dead；　or　gone　away　with　many　other
  things；〃　said　the　man。
  But　the　story　never　dies。　And　more　than　a　whole　year　went　by；
  and　he　longed…　oh；　so　very　much！…　for　the　Story。
  〃I　wonder　if　the　Story　will　ever　come　back　again　and　knock？〃
  And　he　remembered　it　so　well　in　all　the　various　forms　in　which
  it　had　come　to　him；　sometimes　young　and　charming；　like　spring
  itself；　sometimes　as　a　beautiful　maiden；　with　a　wreath　of　thyme　in　her
  hair；　and　a　beechen　branch　in　her　hand；　and　with　eyes　that　gleamed
  like　deep　woodland　lakes　in　the　bright　sunshine。
  Sometimes　it　had　come　to　him　in　the　guise　of　a　peddler；　and　had
  opened　its　box　and　let　silver　ribbon　come　fluttering　out；　with
  verses　and　inscriptions　of　old　remembrances。
  But　it　was　most　charming　of　all　when　it　came　as　an　old
  grandmother；　with　silvery　hair；　and　such　large；　sensible　eyes。　She
  knew　so　well　how　to　tell　about　the　oldest　times；　long　before　the
  princesses　spun　with　the　golden　spindles；　and　the　dragons　lay
  outside　the　castles；　guarding　them。　She　told　with　such　an　air　of
  truth；　that　black　spots　danced　before　the　eyes　of　all　who　heard　her；
  and　the　floor　became　black　with　human　blood；　terrible　to　see　and　to
  hear；　and　yet　so　entertaining；　because　such　a　long　time　had　passed
  since　it　all　happened。
  〃Will　it　ever　knock　at　my　door　again？〃　said　the　man；　and　he
  gazed　at　the　door；　so　that　black　spots　came　before　his　eyes　and　upon
  the　floor；　he　did　not　know　if　it　was　blood；　or　mourning　crape　from　the　dark　heavy　days。
  And　as　he　sat　thus；　the　thought　came　upon　him　whether　the　Story
  might　not　have　hidden　itself；　like　the　princess　in　the　old　tale。　And
  he　would　now　go　in　search　of　it；　if　he　found　it；　it　would　beam　in
  new　splendor；　lovelier　than　ever。
  〃Who　knows？　Perhaps　it　has　hidden　itself　in　the　straw　that
  balances　on　the　margin　of　the　well。　Carefully；　carefully！　Perhaps　it
  lies　hidden　in　a　certain　flower…　that　flower　in　one　of　the　great　books
  on　the　book…shelf。〃
  And　the　man　went　and　opened　one　of　the　newest　books；　to　gain
  information　on　this　point；　but　there　was　no　flower　to　be　found。
  There　he　read　about　Holger　Danske；　and　the　man　read　that　the　tale
  had　been　invented　and　put　together　by　a　monk　in　France；　that　it　was
  a　romance；　〃translated　into　Danish　and　printed　in　that　language；〃　that
  Holger　Danske　had　never　really　lived；　and　consequently　could　never
  come　again；　as　we　have　sung；　and　have　been　so　glad　to　believe。　And
  William　Tell　was　treated　just　like　Holger　Danske。　These　were　all
  only　myths…　nothing　on　which　we　could　depend；　and　yet　it　is　all
  written　in　a　very　learned　book。
  〃Well；　I　shall　believe　what　I　believe！〃　said　the　man。　〃There　grows
  no　plantain　where　no　foot　has　trod。〃
  And　he　closed　the　book　and　put　it　back　in　its　place；　and　went　to
  the　fresh　flowers　at　the　window。　Perhaps　the　Story　might　have　hidden
  itself　in　the　red　tulips；　with　the　golden　yellow　edges；　or　in　the
  fresh　rose；　or　in　the　beaming　camellia。　The　sunshine　lay　among　the
  flowers；　but　no　Story。
  The　flowers　which　had　been　here　in　the　dark　troublous　time　had
  been　much　more　beautiful；　but　they　had　been　cut　off；　one　after
  another；　to　be　woven　into　wreaths　and　placed　in　coffins；　and　the
  flag　had　waved　over　them！　Perhaps　the　Story　had　been　buried　with　the　flowers；　but　then　the　flowers　would　have　known　of　it；　and　the　coffin　would　have　heard　it；　and　every　little　blade　of　grass　that　shot　forth　would　have　told　of　it。　The　Story　never　dies。
  Perhaps　it　has　been　here　once；　and　has　knocked；　but　who　had　eyes
  or　ears　for　it　in　those　times？　People　looked　darkly；　gloomily；　and
  almost　angrily　at　the　sunshine　of　spring；　at　the　twittering　birds；　and
  all　the　cheerful　green；　the　tongue　could　not　even　bear　the　old
  merry；　popular　songs；　and　they　were　laid　in　the　coffin　with　so　much
  that　our　heart　held　dear。　The　Story　may　have　knocked　without　obtaining　a　hearing；　there　was　none　to　bid　it　welcome；　and　so　it　may　have　gone　away。
  〃I　will　go　forth　and　seek　it。　Out　in　the　country！　out　in　the　wood！
  and　on　the　open　sea　beach！〃
  Out　in　the　country　lies　an　old　manor　house；　with　red　walls；
  pointed　gables；　and　a　red　flag　that　floats　on　the　tower。　The
  nightingale　sings　among　the　finely…fringed　beech…leaves；　looking　at
  the　blooming　apple　trees　of　the　garden；　and　thinking　that　they　bear
  roses。　Here　the　bees　are　mightily　busy　in　the　summer…time；　and　hover
  round　their　queen　with　their　humming　song。　The　autumn　has　much　to　tell　of　the　wild　chase；　of　the　leaves　of　the　trees；　and　of　the　races　of　men　that　are　passing　away　together。　The　wild　swans　sing　at
  Christmas…time　on　the　open　water；　while　in　the　old　hall　the　guests
  by　the　fireside　gladly　listen　to　songs　and　to　old　legends。
  Down　into　the　old　part　of　the　garden；　where　the　great　avenue　of
  wild　chestnut　trees　lures　the　wanderer　to　tread　its　shades；　went　the
  man　who　was　in　search　of　the　Story；　for　here　the　wind　had　once
  murmured　something　to　him　of　〃Waldemar　Daa　and　his　Daughters。〃
  The　Dryad　in　the　tree；　who　was　the　Story…mother　herself；　had　here　told　him　the　〃Dream　of　the　Old　Oak　Tree。〃　Here；　in　the　time　of　the　ancestra　mother；　had　stood　clipped　hedges；　but　now　only　ferns　and　stinging　nettles　grew　there；　hiding　the　scattered　fragments　of　old　sculptured　figures；　the　moss　is　growing　in　their　eyes；　but　they　can　see　as　well　as　ever；　which　was　more　than　the　man　could　do　who　was　in　search　of　the　Story；　for　he　could　not　find　that。　Where　could　it　be？
  The　crows　flew　past　him　by　hundreds　across　the　old　trees；　and
  screamed；　〃Krah！　da！…　Krah！　da！〃
  And　he　went　out　of　the　garden　and　over　the　grass…plot　of　the　yard；
  into　the　alder　grove；　there　stood　a　little　six…sided　house；　with　a
  poultry…yard　and　a　duck…yard。　In　the　middle　of　the　room　sat　the　old
  woman　who　had　the　management　of　the　whole；　and　who　knew　accurately　about　every　egg　that　was　laid；　and　about　every　chicken　that　could　creep　out　of　an　egg。　But　she　was　not　the　Story　of　which　the　man　was　in　search；　that　she　could　attest　with　a　Christian　certificate　of
  baptism　and　of　vaccination　that　lay　in　her　drawer。
  Without；　not　far　from　the　house；　is　a　hill　covered　with
  red…thorn　and　broom。　Here　lies　an　old　grave…stone；　which　was　brought　here　many　years　ago　from　the　churchyard　of　the　provincial　town；　a　remembrance　of　one　of　the　most　honored　councillors　of　the　place；　his　wife　and　his　five　daughters；　all　with　folded　hands　and　stiff　ruffs；　stand　round　him。　One　could　look　at　them　so　long；　that　it　had　an　effect　upon　the　thoughts；　and　these　reacted　upon　the　stones；　as　if　they
  were　telling　of　old　times；　at　least　it　had　been　so　with　the　man　who
  was　in　search　of　the　Story。
  As　he　came　nearer；　he　noticed　a　living　butterfly　sitting　on　the
  forehead　of　the　sculptured　councillor。　The　butterfly　flapped　its
  wings；　and　flew　a　little　bit　farther；　and　then　returned　fatigued　to
  sit　upon　the　grave…stone；　as　if　to　point　out　what　grew　there。
  Four…leaved　shamrocks　grew　there；　there　were　seven　specimens　close
  to　each　other。　When　fortune　comes；　it　comes　in　a　heap。　He　plucked
  the　shamrocks　and　put　them　in　his　pocket。
  〃Fortune　is　as　good　as　red　gold；　but　a　new　charming　story　would　be
  better　still；〃　thought　the　man；　but　he　could　not　find　it　here。
  And　the　sun　went　down；　round　and　large；　the　meadow　was　covered
  with　vapor。　The　moor…woman　was　at　her　brewing。
  It　was　evening。　He　stood　alone　in　his　room；　and　looked　out　upon
  the　sea；　over　the　meadow；　over　moor　and　coast。　The　moon　shone
  bright；　a　mist　was　over　the　meadow；　making　it　look　like　a　great
  lake；　and；　indeed；　it　was　once　so；　as　the　legend　tells…　and　in　the
  moonlight　the　eye　realizes　these　myths。
  Then　the　man　thought　of　what　he　had　been　reading　in　the　town；　that
  William　Tell　and　Holger　Danske　never　really　lived；　but　yet　live　in
  popular　story；　like　the　lake　yonder；　a　living　evidence　for　such　myths。
  Yes；　Holger　Danske　will　return　again！
  As　he　stood　thus　and　thought；　something　beat　quite　strongly
  against　the　window。　Was　it　a　bird；　a　bat　or　an　owl？　Those　are　not
  let　in；　even　when　they　knock。　The　window　flew　open　of　itself；　and　an
  old　woman　looked　in　at　the　man。
  〃What's　your　pleasure？〃　said　he。　〃Who　are　you？　You're　looking　in