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 From my father I received the best inheritance, namely a "good temper." "And who was my father?" That has nothing to do with the good temper; but I will say he was lively, good-looking round, and fat; he was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction to his profession. "And pray what was his profession and his standing in respectable society?" Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a book these were written and printed, many, when they read it, would lay the book down and say, "It seems to me a very miserable title, I don't like things of this sort." And yet my father was not ask in-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his employment placed him at the head of the grandest people of the town, and it was his place by right. He had to precede the bishop, and even the princes of the blood; he always went first,- he was a hearse driver! there, now, the truth is out. And I will own, that when people saw my father perched up in front of the omnibus of death, dressed in his long, wide, black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat on his head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as the sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That face said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people think." So I have inherited from him, not only my good temper, but a habit of going often to the churchyard, which is good, when done in a proper humor; and then also I take in the In Intelligencer, just as he used to do.

I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor a library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is enough for me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was to my father. It is of great use, for it contains all that a man requires to know; the names of the preachers at the church, and the new books which are published; where houses, servants, clothes, and provisions maybe obtained. And then what a number of subscriptions to charities, and what innocent verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements, all so plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in the Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly, and by the end of his life will have such a capital stock of paper that he can lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers wood shavings for his resting-place. the newspaper and the churchyard were always exciting objects to me. My walks to the latter were like bathing-places to my good humor. Every one can read the newspaper for himself, but come with me to the churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are green, and let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like a closed book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great deal of information from my father, and I have noticed a great deal myself. I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleas urea history of all who lie here, and a few more beside.

Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white iron railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little bit of ever green, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green tendrils, and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position. He had enough to live upon, and something to spare; but owing to his refined tastes the least thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to a theatre of an evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite annoyed if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of the moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the scenes when they ought to have hung behind them; or if a palm-tree was introduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin, or a cactus in a view of Tyrol, or a beech-tree in the north of Norway. As if these things were of any consequence! Why did he not leave them alone? Who would trouble themselves about such trifles? specially at a comedy, where every one is expected to be amused. then sometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to please him. "they are like wet wood," he would say, looking round to see what sort of people were present, "this evening; nothing fires them." Then he would vex and fret himself because they did not laugh at the right time, or because they laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted and worried himself till at last the unhappy man fretted him self into the grave.

Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high birth and position, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he would have been scarcely worth notice. It is beautiful to observe how wisely nature orders these things. He walked about in a coat embroidered all over, and in the drawing-rooms of society looked just like one of those rich pearl-embroidered bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind them always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had as tout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and performed all his dirty work. And there are still, even now, these serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes. It is all so wisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good humor.

Here rests,- ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of him!-but here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was never remembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in the hope of having a good idea. At last he felt convinced, in his own mind, that he really had one, and was so delighted that he positively died of joy at the thought of having at last caught an idea.

Nobody got any thing by it; indeed, no one even heard what the good thing was. Now I can imagine that this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in his grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he can only make his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts are believed generally to do; why then this good idea would not suit the hour, and the man would have to carry it down again with him into the grave-that must be a troubled grave.

the woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that during her life she would get up in the night and mew, that her neighbors might think she kept a cat. What a miser she was!

Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would always make her voice heard in society, and when she sang "Mi manca la voce,"*it was the only true thing she ever said in her life.

* "I want a voice," or, "I have no voice."

Here lies a maiden of another description. She was engaged to be married,- but, her story is one of every-day life; we will leave her to rest in the grave.

Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried gall in her heart. She used to go round among the families near, and search out their faults, upon which she preyed with all the envy and malice of her nature. This is a family grave. the members of this family held so firmly together in their opinions, that they would believe in no other. If the newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain subject, "It is so-and-so;" and a little schoolboy declared he had learned quite differently, they would take his assertion as the only true one, because he belonged to the family. And it is well known that if the yard-cock belonging to this family happened to crow at midnight, they would declare it was morning, although the watchman and all the clocks in the town were proclaiming the hour of twelve at night.

the great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words, "maybe continued;" so might our wanderings in the churchyard be continued. I come here often, and if any of my friends, or those who are not my friends, are too much for me, I go out and choose a plot of ground in which to bury him or her. then I bury them, as it were; there they lie, dead and powerless, till they come back new and better characters. their lives and their deeds, looked at after my own fashion, I write down in my diary, as every one ought to do. then, if any of our friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about it. Let them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good temper. they can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper written by the people, with their hands guided. When the time comes for the history of my life, to be bound by the grave, then they will write upon it as my epitaph- "the man with a cheerful temper."

And this is my story.

 All the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.

Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said, "Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale." Then the nightingale sung himself to death. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.

The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.

It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."

Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his "Iliad," and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens the book, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."

THE END

This story really consists of two parts. the first part might be

left out, but it gives us a few particulars, and these are useful

We were staying in the country at a gentleman's seat, where it

happened that the master was absent for a few days. In the meantime,

there arrived from the next town a lady; she had a pug dog with her,

and came, she said, to dispose of shares in her tan-yard. She had

her papers with her, and we advised her to put them in an envelope,

and to write thereon the address of the proprietor of the estate,

"General War-Commissary Knight," & c.

She listened to us attentively, seized the pen, paused, and begged

us to repeat the direction slowly. We complied, and she wrote; but

in the midst of the "General War-" she struck fast, sighed deeply, and

said, "I am only a woman!" Her Puggie had seated itself on the

ground while she wrote, and growled; for the dog had come with her for

amusement and for the sake of its health; and then the bare floor

ought not to be offered to a visitor. His outward appearance was

characterized by a snub nose and a very fat back.

"He doesn't bite," said the lady; "he has no teeth. He is like one

of the family, faithful and grumpy; but the latter is my

grandchildren's fault, for they have teased him; they play at wedding,

and want to give him the part of the bridesmaid, and that's too much

for him, poor old fellow."

And she delivered her papers, and took Puggie upon her arm. And

this is the first part of the story which might have been left out.

PUGGIE DIED!! That's the second part.

It was about a week afterwards we arrived in the town, and put

up at the inn. Our windows looked into the tan-yard, which was divided

into two parts by a partition of planks; in one half were many skins

and hides, raw and tanned. Here was all the apparatus necessary to

carry on a tannery, and it belonged to the widow. Puggie had died in

the morning, and was to be buried in this part of the yard; the

grandchildren of the widow (that is, of the tanner's widow, for Puggie

had never been married) filled up the grave, and it was a beautiful

grave- it must have been quite pleasant to lie there.

The grave was bordered with pieces of flower-pots and strewn

over with sand; quite at the top they had stuck up half a beer bottle,

with the neck upwards, and that was not at all allegorical.

The children danced round the grave, and the eldest of the boys

among them, a practical youngster of seven years, made the proposition

that there should be an exhibition of Puggie's burial-place for all

who lived in the lane; the price of admission was to be a trouser

button, for every boy would be sure to have one, and each might also

give one for a little girl. This proposal was adopted by acclamation.

And all the children out of the lane- yes, even out of the

little lane at the back- flocked to the place, and each gave a button.

Many were noticed to go about on that afternoon with only one

suspender; but then they had seen Puggie's grave, and the sight was

worth much more.

But in front of the tan-yard, close to the entrance, stood a

little girl clothed in rags, very pretty to look at, with curly

hair, and eyes so blue and clear that it was a pleasure to look into

them. The child said not a word, nor did she cry; but each time the

little door was opened she gave a long, long look into the yard. She

had not a button- that she knew right well, and therefore she remained

standing sorrowfully outside, till all the others had seen the grave

and had gone away; then she sat down, held her little brown hands

before her eyes, and burst into tears; this girl alone had not seen

Puggie's grave. It was a grief as great to her as any grown person can

experience.

We saw this from above; and looked at from above, how many a grief

of our own and of others can make us smile! That is the story, and

whoever does not understand it may go and purchase a share in the

tan-yard from the window.

THE END

 Poor John was very sad； for his father was so ill， he had no hope of his recovery. John sat alone with the sick man in the little room， and the lamp had nearly burnt out； for it was late in the night.

　　“You have been a good son， John，” said the sick father， “and God will help you on in the world.” He looked at him， as he spoke， with mild， earnest eyes， drew a deep sigh， and died； yet it appeared as if he still slept.

John wept bitterly. He had no one in the wide world now； neither father， mother， brother， nor sister. Poor John！ he knelt down by the bed， kissed his dead father's hand， and wept many， many bitter tears. But at last his eyes closed， and he fell asleep with his head resting against the hard bedpost. Then he dreamed a strange dream； he thought he saw the sun shining upon him， and his father alive and well， and even heard him laughing as he used to do when he was very happy. A beautiful girl， with a golden crown on her head， and long， shining hair， gave him her hand； and his father said， “See what a bride you have won. She is the loveliest maiden on the whole earth.” Then he awoke， and all the beautiful things vanished before his eyes， his father lay dead on the bed， and he was all alone. Poor John！

During the following week the dead man was buried. The son walked behind the coffin which contained his father， whom he so dearly loved， and would never again behold. He heard the earth fall on the coffin-lid， and watched it till only a corner remained in sight， and at last that also disappeared. He felt as if his heart would break with its weight of sorrow， till those who stood round the grave sang a psalm， and the sweet， holy tones brought tears into his eyes， which relieved him. The sun shone brightly down on the green trees， as if it would say， “You must not be so sorrowful， John. Do you see the beautiful blue sky above you？ Your father is up there， and he prays to the loving Father of all， that you may do well in the future.”

　　“I will always be good，” said John， “and then I shall go to be with my father in heaven. What joy it will be when we see each other again！ How much I shall have to relate to him， and how many things he will be able to explain to me of the delights of heaven， and teach me as he once did on earth. Oh， what joy it will be！”

He pictured it all so plainly to himself， that he smiled even while the tears ran down his cheeks.

the little birds in the chestnut-trees twittered， “Tweet， tweet；” they were so happy， although they had seen the funeral； but they seemed as if they knew that the dead man was now in heaven， and that he had wings much larger and more beautiful than their own； and he was happy now， because he had been good here on earth， and they were glad of it. John saw them fly away out of the green trees into the wide world， and he longed to fly with them； but first he cut out a large wooden cross， to place on his father's grave； and when he brought it there in the evening， he found the grave decked out with gravel and flowers. Strangers had done this； they who had known the good old father who was now dead， and who had loved him very much.

Early the next morning， John packed up his little bundle of clothes， and placed all his money， which consisted of fifty dollars and a few shillings， in his girdle； with this he determined to try his fortune in the world. But first he went into the churchyard； and， by his father's grave， he offered up a prayer， and said， “Farewell.”

As he passed through the fields， all the flowers looked fresh and beautiful in the warm sunshine， and nodded in the wind， as if they wished to say， “Welcome to the green wood， where all is fresh and bright.”

then John turned to have one more look at the old church， in which he had been christened in his infancy， and where his father had taken him every Sunday to hear the service and join in singing the psalms. As he looked at the old tower， he espied the ringer standing at one of the narrow openings， with his little pointed red cap on his head， and shading his eyes from the sun with his bent arm. John nodded farewell to him， and the little ringer waved his red cap， laid his hand on his heart， and kissed his hand to him a great many times， to show that he felt kindly towards him， and wished him a prosperous journey.

John continued his journey， and thought of all the wonderful things he should see in the large， beautiful world， till he found himself farther away from home than ever he had been before. He did not even know the names of the places he passed through， and could scarcely understand the language of the people he met， for he was far away， in a strange land. The first night he slept on a haystack， out in the fields， for there was no other bed for him； but it seemed to him so nice and comfortable that even a king need not wish for a better. The field， the brook， the haystack， with the blue sky above， formed a beautiful sleeping-room. The Ggreen grass， with the little red and white flowers， was the carpet； the elder-bushes and the hedges of wild roses looked like garlands on the walls； and for a bath he could have the clear， fresh water of the brook； while the rushes bowed their heads to him， to wish him good morning and good evening. The moon， like a large lamp， hung high up in the blue ceiling， and he had no fear of its setting fire to his curtains. John slept here quite safely all night； and when he awoke， the sun was up， and all the little birds were singing round him， “Good morning， good morning. Are you not up yet？”

It was Sunday， and the bells were ringing for church. As the people went in， John followed them； he heard God's word， joined in singing the psalms， and listened to the preacher. It seemed to him just as if he were in his own church， where he had been christened， and had sung the psalms with his father. Out in the churchyard were several graves， and on some of them the grass had grown very high. John thought of his father's grave， which he knew at last would look like these， as he was not there to weed and attend to it. Then he set to work， pulled up the high grass， raised the wooden crosses which had fallen down， and replaced the wreaths which had been blown away from their places by the wind， thinking all the time， “Perhaps some one is doing the same for my father's grave， as I am not there to do it ”

Outside the church door stood an old beggar， leaning on his crutch. John gave him his silver shillings， and then he continued his journey， feeling lighter and happier than ever. Towards evening， the weather became very stormy， and he hastened on as quickly as he could， to get shelter； but it was quite dark by the time he reached a little lonely church which stood on a hill. “I will go in here，” he said， “and sit down in a corner； for I am quite tired， and want rest.”

So he went in， and seated himself； then he folded his hands， and offered up his evening prayer， and was soon fast asleep and dreaming， while the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed without. When he awoke， it was still night； but the storm had ceased， and the moon shone in upon him through the windows. Then he saw an open coffin standing in the centre of the church， which contained a dead man， waiting for burial. John was not at all timid； he had a good conscience， and he knew also that the dead can never injure any one. It is living wicked men who do harm to others. Two such wicked persons stood now by the dead man， who had been brought to the church to be buried. Their evil intentions were to throw the poor dead body outside the church door， and not leave him to rest in his coffin.

　　“Why do you do this？” asked John， when he saw what they were going to do； “it is very wicked. Leave him to rest in peace， in Christ's name.”

　　“Nonsense，” replied the two dreadful men. “He has cheated us； he owed us money which he could not pay， and now he is dead we shall not get a penny； so we mean to have our revenge， and let him lie like a dog outside the church door.”

　　“I have only fifty dollars，” said John， “it is all I possess in the world， but I will give it to you if you will promise me faithfully to leave the dead man in peace. I shall be able to get on without the money； I have strong and healthy limbs， and God will always help me.”

　　“Why， of course，” said the horrid men， “if you will pay his debt we will both promise not to touch him. You may depend upon that；” and then they took the money he offered them， laughed at him for his good nature， and went their way.

then he laid the dead body back in the coffin， folded the hands， and took leave of it； and went away contentedly through the great forest. All around him he could see the prettiest little elves dancing in the moonlight， which shone through the trees. They were not disturbed by his appearance， for they knew he was good and harmless among men. They are wicked people only who can never obtain a glimpse of fairies. Some of them were not taller than the breadth of a finger， and they wore golden combs in their long， yellow hair. They were rocking themselves two together on the large dew-drops with which the leaves and the high grass were sprinkled. Sometimes the dew-drops would roll away， and then they fell down between the stems of the long grass， and caused a great deal of laughing and noise among the other little people. It was quite charming to watch them at play. Then they sang songs， and John remembered that he had learnt those pretty songs when he was a little boy. Large speckled spiders， with silver crowns on their heads， were employed to spin suspension bridges and palaces from one hedge to another， and when the tiny drops fell upon them， they glittered in the moonlight like shining glass. This continued till sunrise. Then the little elves crept into the flower-buds， and the wind seized the bridges and palaces， and fluttered them in the air like cobwebs.

As John left the wood， a strong man's voice called after him， “Hallo， comrade， where are you travelling？”

　　“Into the wide world，” he replied； “I am only a poor lad， I have neither father nor mother， but God will help me.”

　　“I am going into the wide world also，” replied the stranger； “shall we keep each other company？”

　　“With all my heart，” he said， and so they went on together. Soon they began to like each other very much， for they were both good； but John found out that the stranger was much more clever than himself. He had travelled all over the world， and could describe almost everything. The sun was high in the heavens when they seated themselves under a large tree to eat their breakfast， and at the same moment an old woman came towards them. She was very old and almost bent double. She leaned upon a stick and carried on her back a bundle of firewood， which she had collected in the forest； her apron was tied round it， and John saw three great stems of fern and some willow twigs peeping out. just as she came close up to them， her foot slipped and she fell to the ground screaming loudly； poor old woman， she had broken her leg！ John proposed directly that they should carry the old woman home to her cottage； but the stranger opened his knapsack and took out a box， in which he said he had a salve that would quickly make her leg well and strong again， so that she would be able to walk home herself， as if her leg had never been broken. And all that he would ask in return was the three fern stems which she carried in her apron.

　　“That is rather too high a price，” said the old woman， nodding her head quite strangely. She did not seem at all inclined to part with the fern stems. However， it was not very agreeable to lie there with a broken leg， so she gave them to him； and such was the power of the ointment， that no sooner had he rubbed her leg with it than the old mother rose up and walked even better than she had done before. But then this wonderful ointment could not be bought at a chemist's.

　　“What can you want with those three fern rods？” asked John of his fellow-traveller.

　　“Oh， they will make capital brooms，” said he； “and I like them because I have strange whims sometimes.” Then they walked on together for a long distance.

　　“How dark the sky is becoming，” said John； “and look at those thick， heavy clouds.”

　　“Those are not clouds，” replied his fellow-traveller； “they are mountains—large lofty mountains—on the tops of which we should be above the clouds， in the pure， free air. Believe me， it is delightful to ascend so high， tomorrow we shall be there.” But the mountains were not so near as they appeared； they had to travel a whole day before they reached them， and pass through black forests and piles of rock as large as a town. The journey had been so fatiguing that John and his fellow-traveller stopped to rest at a roadside inn， so that they might gain strength for their journey on the morrow. In the large public room of the inn a great many persons were assembled to see a comedy performed by dolls. The showman had just erected his little theatre， and the people were sitting round the room to witness the performance. Right in front， in the very best place， sat a stout butcher， with a great bull-dog by his side who seemed very much inclined to bite. He sat staring with all his eyes， and so indeed did every one else in the room. And then the play began. It was a pretty piece， with a king and a queen in it， who sat on a beautiful throne， and had gold crowns on their heads. The trains to their dresses were very long， according to the fashion； while the prettiest of wooden dolls， with glass eyes and large mustaches， stood at the doors， and opened and shut them， that the fresh air might come into the room. It was a very pleasant play， not at all mournful； but just as the queen stood up and walked across the stage， the great bull-dog， who should have been held back by his master， made a spring forward， and caught the queen in the teeth by the slender wrist， so that it snapped in two. This was a very dreadful disaster. The poor man， who was exhibiting the dolls， was much annoyed， and quite sad about his queen； she was the prettiest doll he had， and the bull-dog had broken her head and shoulders off. But after all the people were gone away， the stranger， who came with John， said that he could soon set her to rights. And then he brought out his box and rubbed the doll with some of the salve with which he had cured the old woman when she broke her leg. As soon as this was done the doll's back became quite right again； her head and shoulders were fixed on， and she could even move her limbs herself： there was now no occasion to pull the wires， for the doll acted just like a living creature， excepting that she could not speak. The man to whom the show belonged was quite delighted at having a doll who could dance of herself without being pulled by the wires； none of the other dolls could do this.

 “ Poor flowers are quite dead，” said little Ida， “they were so pretty yesterday evening， and now all the leaves are hanging down quite withered. What do they do that for，” she asked， of the student who sat on the sofa； she liked him very much， he could tell the most amusing stories， and cut out the prettiest pictures； hearts， and ladies dancing， castles with doors that opened， as well as flowers； he was a delightful student. “Why do the flowers look so faded to-day？” she asked again， and pointed to her nosegay， which was quite withered.

　　“Don't you know what is the matter with them？” said the student. “The flowers were at a ball last night， and therefore， it is no wonder they hang their heads.”

　　“But flowers cannot dance？” cried little Ida.

　　“Yes indeed， they can，” replied the student. “When it grows dark， and everybody is asleep， they jump about quite merrily. They have a ball almost every night.”

　　“Can children go to these balls？”

　　“Yes，” said the student， “little daisies and lilies of the valley.”

　　“Where do the beautiful flowers dance？” asked little Ida.

　　“Have you not often seen the large castle outside the gates of the town， where the king lives in summer， and where the beautiful garden is full of flowers？ And have you not fed the swans with bread when they swam towards you？ Well， the flowers have capital balls there， believe me.”

　　“I was in the garden out there yesterday with my mother，” said Ida， “but all the leaves were off the trees， and there was not a single flower left. Where are they？ I used to see so many in the summer.”

　　“they are in the castle，” replied the student. “You must know that as soon as the king and all the court are gone into the town， the flowers run out of the garden into the castle， and you should see how merry they are. The two most beautiful roses seat themselves on the throne， and are called the king and queen， then all the red cockscombs range themselves on each side， and bow， these are the lords-in-waiting. After that the pretty flowers come in， and there is a grand ball. The blue violets represent little naval cadets， and dance with hyacinths and crocuses which they call young ladies. The tulips and tiger-lilies are the old ladies who sit and watch the dancing， so that everything may be conducted with order and propriety.”

　　“But，” said little Ida， “is there no one there to hurt the flowers for dancing in the king's castle？”

　　“No one knows anything about it，” said the student. “The old steward of the castle， who has to watch there at night， sometimes comes in； but he carries a great bunch of keys， and as soon as the flowers hear the keys rattle， they run and hide themselves behind the long curtains， and stand quite still， just peeping their heads out. Then the old steward says， 'I smell flowers here，' but he cannot see them.”

　　“Oh how capital，” said little Ida， clapping her hands. “Should I be able to see these flowers？”

　　“Yes，” said the student， “mind you think of it the next time you go out， no doubt you will see them， if you peep through the window. I did so to-day， and I saw a long yellow lily lying stretched out on the sofa. She was a court lady.”

　　“Can the flowers from the Botanical Gardens go to these balls？” asked Ida. “It is such a distance！”

　　“Oh yes，” said the student “whenever they like， for they can fly. Have you not seen those beautiful red， white. and yellow butterflies， that look like flowers？ They were flowers once. They have flown off their stalks into the air， and flap their leaves as if they were little wings to make them fly. Then， if they behave well， they obtain permission to fly about during the day， instead of being obliged to sit still on their stems at home， and so in time their leaves become real wings. It may be， however， that the flowers in the Botanical Gardens have never been to the king's palace， and， therefore， they know nothing of the merry doings at night， which take place there. I will tell you what to do， and the botanical professor， who lives close by here， will be so surprised. You know him very well， do you not？ Well， next time you go into his garden， you must tell one of the flowers that there is going to be a grand ball at the castle， then that flower will tell all the others， and they will fly away to the castle as soon as possible. And when the professor walks into his garden， there will not be a single flower left. How he will wonder what has become of them！”

　　“But how can one flower tell another？ Flowers cannot speak？”

　　“No， certainly not，” replied the student； “but they can make signs. Have you not often seen that when the wind blows they nod at one another， and rustle all their green leaves？”

　　“Can the professor understand the signs？” asked Ida.

　　“Yes， to be sure he can. He went one morning into his garden， and saw a stinging nettle making signs with its leaves to a beautiful red carnation. It was saying， 'You are so pretty， I like you very much.' But the professor did not approve of such nonsense， so he clapped his hands on the nettle to stop it. Then the leaves， which are its fingers， stung him so sharply that he has never ventured to touch a nettle since.”

　　“Oh how funny！” said Ida， and she laughed.

　　“How can anyone put such notions into a child's head？” said a tiresome lawyer， who had come to pay a visit， and sat on the sofa. He did not like the student， and would grumble when he saw him cutting out droll or amusing pictures. Sometimes it would be a man hanging on a gibbet and holding a heart in his hand as if he had been stealing hearts. Sometimes it was an old witch riding through the air on a broom and carrying her husband on her nose. But the lawyer did not like such jokes， and he would say as he had just said， “How can anyone put such nonsense into a child's head！ what absurd fancies there are！”

 But to little Ida， all these stories which the student told her about the flowers， seemed very droll， and she thought over them a great deal. The flowers did hang their heads， because they had been dancing all night， and were very tired， and most likely they were ill. Then she took them into the room where a number of toys lay on a pretty little table， and the whole of the table drawer besides was full of beautiful things. Her doll Sophy lay in the doll's bed asleep， and little Ida said to her， “You must really get up Sophy， and be content to lie in the drawer to-night； the poor flowers are ill， and they must lie in your bed， then perhaps they will get well again.” So she took the doll out， who looked quite cross， and said not a single word， for she was angry at being turned out of her bed. Ida placed the flowers in the doll's bed， and drew the quilt over them. Then she told them to lie quite still and be good， while she made some tea for them， so that they might be quite well and able to get up the next morning. And she drew the curtains close round the little bed， so that the sun might not shine in their eyes. During the whole evening she could not help thinking of what the student had told her. And before she went to bed herself， she was obliged to peep behind the curtains into the garden where all her mother's beautiful flowers grew， hyacinths and tulips， and many others. Then she whispered to them quite softly， “I know you are going to a ball to-night.” But the flowers appeared as if they did not understand， and not a leaf moved； still Ida felt quite sure she knew all about it. She lay awake a long time after she was in bed， thinking how pretty it must be to see all the beautiful flowers dancing in the king's garden. “I wonder if my flowers have really been there，” she said to herself， and then she fell asleep. In the night she awoke； she had been dreaming of the flowers and of the student， as well as of the tiresome lawyer who found fault with him. It was quite still in Ida's bedroom； the night-lamp burnt on the table， and her father and mother were asleep. “I wonder if my flowers are still lying in Sophy's bed，” she thought to herself； “how much I should like to know.” She raised herself a little， and glanced at the door of the room where all her flowers and playthings lay； it was partly open， and as she listened， it seemed as if some one in the room was playing the piano， but softly and more prettily than she had ever before heard it. “Now all the flowers are certainly dancing in there，” she thought， “oh how much I should like to see them，” but she did not dare move for fear of disturbing her father and mother. “If they would only come in here，” she thought； but they did not come， and the music continued to play so beautifully， and was so pretty， that she could resist no longer. She crept out of her little bed， went softly to the door and looked into the room. Oh what a splendid sight there was to be sure！ There was no night-lamp burning， but the room appeared quite light， for the moon shone through the window upon the floor， and made it almost like day. All the hyacinths and tulips stood in two long rows down the room， not a single flower remained in the window， and the flower-pots were all empty. The flowers were dancing gracefully on the floor， making turns and holding each other by their long green leaves as they swung round. At the piano sat a large yellow lily which little Ida was sure she had seen in the summer， for she remembered the student saying she was very much like Miss Lina， one of Ida's friends. They all laughed at him then， but now it seemed to little Ida as if the tall， yellow flower was really like the young lady. She had just the same manners while playing， bending her long yellow face from side to side， and nodding in time to the beautiful music. Then she saw a large purple crocus jump into the middle of the table where the playthings stood， go up to the doll's bedstead and draw back the curtains； there lay the sick flowers， but they got up directly， and nodded to the others as a sign that they wished to dance with them. The old rough doll， with the broken mouth， stood up and bowed to the pretty flowers. They did not look ill at all now， but jumped about and were very merry， yet none of them noticed little Ida. Presently it seemed as if something fell from the table. Ida looked that way， and saw a slight carnival rod jumping down among the flowers as if it belonged to them； it was， however， very smooth and neat， and a little wax doll with a broad brimmed hat on her head， like the one worn by the lawyer， sat upon it. The carnival rod hopped about among the flowers on its three red stilted feet， and stamped quite loud when it danced the Mazurka； the flowers could not perform this dance， they were too light to stamp in that manner. All at once the wax doll which rode on the carnival rod seemed to grow larger and taller， and it turned round and said to the paper flowers， “How can you put such things in a child's head？ they are all foolish fancies；” and then the doll was exactly like the lawyer with the broad brimmed hat， and looked as yellow and as cross as he did； but the paper dolls struck him on his thin legs， and he shrunk up again and became quite a little wax doll. This was very amusing， and Ida could not help laughing. The carnival rod went on dancing， and the lawyer was obliged to dance also. It was no use， he might make himself great and tall， or remain a little wax doll with a large black hat； still he must dance. Then at last the other flowers interceded for him， especially those who had lain in the doll's bed， and the carnival rod gave up his dancing. At the same moment a loud knocking was heard in the drawer， where Ida's doll Sophy lay with many other toys. Then the rough doll ran to the end of the table， laid himself flat down upon it， and began to pull the drawer out a little way.

then Sophy raised himself， and looked round quite astonished， “There must be a ball here to-night，” said Sophy. “Why did not somebody tell me？”

　　“Will you dance with me？” said the rough doll.

　　“You are the right sort to dance with， certainly，” said she， turning her back upon him.

then she seated herself on the edge of the drawer， and thought that perhaps one of the flowers would ask her to dance； but none of them came. Then she coughed， “Hem， hem， a-hem；” but for all that not one came. The shabby doll now danced quite alone， and not very badly， after all. As none of the flowers seemed to notice Sophy， she let herself down from the drawer to the floor， so as to make a very great noise. All the flowers came round her directly， and asked if she had hurt herself， especially those who had lain in her bed. But she was not hurt at all， and Ida's flowers thanked her for the use of the nice bed， and were very kind to her. They led her into the middle of the room， where the moon shone， and danced with her， while all the other flowers formed a circle round them. Then Sophy was very happy， and said they might keep her bed； she did not mind lying in the drawer at all. But the flowers thanked her very much， and said，—

　　“We cannot live long. To-morrow morning we shall be quite dead； and you must tell little Ida to bury us in the garden， near to the grave of the canary； then， in the summer we shall wake up and be more beautiful than ever.”

　　“No， you must not die，” said Sophy， as she kissed the flowers.

then the door of the room opened， and a number of beautiful flowers danced in. Ida could not imagine where they could come from， unless they were the flowers from the king's garden. First came two lovely roses， with little golden crowns on their heads； these were the king and queen. Beautiful stocks and carnations followed， bowing to every one present. They had also music with them. Large poppies and peonies had pea-shells for instruments， and blew into them till they were quite red in the face. The bunches of blue hyacinths and the little white snowdrops jingled their bell-like flowers， as if they were real bells. Then came many more flowers： blue violets， purple heart's-ease， daisies， and lilies of the valley， and they all danced together， and kissed each other. It was very beautiful to behold.

At last the flowers wished each other good-night. Then little Ida crept back into her bed again， and dreamt of all she had seen. When she arose the next morning， she went quickly to the little table， to see if the flowers were still there. She drew aside the curtains of the little bed. There they all lay， but quite faded； much more so than the day before. Sophy was lying in the drawer where Ida had placed her； but she looked very sleepy.

　　“Do you remember what the flowers told you to say to me？” said little Ida. But Sophy looked quite stupid， and said not a single word.

　　“You are not kind at all，” said Ida； “and yet they all danced with you.”

then she took a little paper box， on which were painted beautiful birds， and laid the dead flowers in it.

　　“This shall be your pretty coffin，” she said； “and by and by， when my cousins come to visit me， they shall help me to bury you out in the garden； so that next summer you may grow up again more beautiful than ever.”

Her cousins were two good-tempered boys， whose names were James and Adolphus. their father had given them each a bow and arrow， and they had brought them to show Ida. She told them about the poor flowers which were dead； and as soon as they obtained permission， they went with her to bury them. The two boys walked first， with their crossbows on their shoulders， and little Ida followed， carrying the pretty box containing the dead flowers. They dug a little grave in the garden. Ida kissed her flowers and then laid them， with the box， in the earth. James and Adolphus then fired their crossbows over the grave， as they had neither guns nor cannons.