The Sand-Hills of Jutland

"But for only one day; then all is over."

"All is over!" exclaimed the insect. "What is the meaning of 'all is over?' Is all over with thee also?"

"No; I may live, perhaps, thousands of thy days, and my lifetime is for centuries. It is so long a period that thou couldst not calculate it."

"No, for I do not understand thee. Thou hast thousands of my days, but I have thousands of moments to be happy in. Is all the beauty in the world at an end when thou diest?"

"Oh! by no means," replied the tree. "It will last longer – much, much longer than I can conceive."

"Well, I think we are much on a par, only that we reckon differently."

And the ephemeron danced and floated about in the sunshine, and enjoyed itself with its pretty little delicate wings, like the most minute flower – enjoyed itself in the warm air, which was so fragrant with the sweet perfumes of the clover-fields, of the wild roses in the hedges, and of the elder-flower, not to speak of the woodbine, the primrose, and the wild mint. The scent was so strong that the ephemeron was almost intoxicated by it. The day was long and pleasant, full of gladness and sweet perceptions; and when the sun set, the little insect felt a sort of pleasing languor creeping over it after all its enjoyments. Its wings would no longer carry it, and very gently it glided down upon the soft blade of grass that was slightly waving in the evening breeze; there it drooped its tiny head, and fell into a calm sleep – the sleep of death.

"Poor little insect!" exclaimed the oak tree, "thy life was far too short."

And every summer's day were repeated a similar dance, a similar conversation, and a similar death. This went on with the whole generation of ephemera, and all were equally happy, equally gay. The oak tree remained awake during its spring morning, its summer day, and its autumn evening; now it was near its sleeping time, its night – the winter was close at hand.

Already the tempests were singing, "Good night, good night! Thy leaves are falling – we pluck them, we pluck them! Try if thou canst slumber; we shall sing thee to sleep, we shall rock thee to sleep; and thy old boughs like this – they are creaking in their joy! Softly, softly sleep! It is thy three hundred and sixty-fifth night. Sleep calmly! The snow is falling from the heavy clouds; it will soon be a wide sheet, a warm coverlet for thy feet. Sleep calmly and dream pleasantly!"

And the oak tree stood disrobed of all its leaves to go to rest for the whole long winter, and during that time to dream many dreams, often something stirring and exciting, like the dreams of human beings.

It, too, had once been little. Yes, an acorn had been its cradle. According to man's reckoning of time it was now living in its fourth century. It was the strongest and loftiest tree in the wood, with its venerable head reared high above all the other trees; and it was seen far away at sea, and looked upon as a beacon by the navigators of the passing ships. It little thought how many eyes looked out for it. High up amidst its green coronal the wood-pigeons built their nests, and the cuckoo's note was heard from thence; and in the autumn, when the leaves looked like hammered plates of copper, came birds of passage, and rested there before they flew far over the sea. But now it was winter, and the tree stood leafless, and the bended and gnarled branches were naked. Crows and jackdaws came and sat themselves there alternately, and talked of the rigorous weather which was commencing, and how difficult it was to find food in winter.

It was just at the holy Christmas time that the tree dreamt its most charming dream. Let us listen to it.

The tree had a distinct idea that it was a period of some solemn festival; it thought it heard all the church bells round ringing, and it seemed to be a mild summer day. Its lofty head, it fancied, looked fresh and green, while the bright rays of the sun played among its thick foliage. The air was laden with the perfume of wild flowers; various butterflies chased each other in sport around its boughs, and the ephemera danced and amused themselves. All that during years the tree had known and seen around it now passed before it as in a festive procession. It beheld, as in the olden time, knights and ladies on horseback, with feathers in their hats and falcons on their hands, riding through the greenwood; it heard the horns of the huntsmen, and the baying of the hounds; it saw the enemies' troops, with their various uniforms, their polished armour, their lances and halberds, pitch their tents and take them down again; the watch-fires blazed, and the soldiers sang and slept under the sheltering branches of the tree. It beheld lovers meet in the soft moonlight, and cut their names – that first letter – upon its olive-green bark. Guitars and Æolian harps were again – but there were very many years between them – hung up on the boughs of the tree by gay travelling swains, and again their sweet sounds broke on the stillness around. The wood-pigeons cooed, as if they were describing the feelings of the tree, and the cuckoo told how many summer days it should yet live.

Then it was as if a new current of life rushed from its lowest roots up to its highest branches, even to the farthest leaves; the tree felt that it extended itself therewith, yet it perceived that its roots down in the ground were also full of life and warmth; it felt its strength increasing, and that it was growing taller and taller. The trunk shot up – there was no pause – more and more it grew – its head became fuller, broader – and as the tree grew it became happier, and its desire increased to rise up still higher, even until it could reach the warm, blazing sun.

Already had it mounted above the clouds, which, like multitudes of dark migratory birds, or flocks of white swans, were floating under it; and every leaf of the tree that had eyes could see. The stars became visible during the day, and looked so large and bright: each of them shone like a pair of mild, clear eyes. They might have recalled to memory dear, well-known eyes – the eyes of children – the eyes of lovers when they met beneath the tree.

It was a moment of exquisite delight. Yet in the midst of its pleasure it felt a desire, a longing that all the other trees in the wood beneath – all the bushes, plants, and flowers – might be able to lift themselves like it, and to participate in its joyful and triumphant feelings. The mighty oak tree, in the midst of its glorious dream, could not be entirely happy unless it had all its old friends with it, great and small; and this feeling pervaded every branch and leaf of the tree as strongly as if it had lived in the breast of a human being.

The summit of the tree moved about as if it missed and sought something left behind. Then it perceived the scent of the woodbine, and soon the still stronger scent of the violets and wild thyme; and it fancied it could hear the cuckoo repeat its note.

At length amidst the clouds peeped forth the tops of the green trees of the wood; they also grew higher and higher, as the oak had done; the bushes and the flowers shot up high in the air; and some of these, dragging their slender roots after them, flew up more rapidly. The birch was the swiftest among the trees: like a white flash of lightning it darted its slender stem upwards, its branches waving like green wreaths and flags. The wood and all its leafy contents, even the brown-feathered rushes, grew, and the birds followed them singing; and in the fluttering blades of silken grass the grasshopper sat and played with his wings against his long thin legs, and the wild bees hummed, and all was song and gladness as up in heaven.

"But the blue-bell and the little wild tansy," said the oak tree; "I should like them with me too."

"We are with you," they sang in their low, sweet tones.

"But the pretty water-lily of last year, and the wild apple tree that stood down yonder, and looked so fresh, and all the forest flowers of years past, had they lived and bloomed till now, they might have been with me."

"We are with you – we are with you," sang their voices far above, as if they had gone up before.

"Well, this is quite enchanting," cried the old tree. "I have them all, small and great – not one is forgotten. How is all this happiness possible and conceivable?"

"In the celestial paradise all this is possible and conceivable," voices chanted around.

And the tree, which continued to rise, observed that its roots were loosening from their hold in the earth.

"This is well," said the tree. "Nothing now retains me. I am free to mount to the highest heaven – to splendour and light; and all that are dear to me are with me – small and great – all with me."

"All!"

This was the oak tree's dream; and whilst it dreamt a fearful storm had burst over sea and land that holy Christmas eve. The ocean rolled heavy billows on the beach – the tree rocked violently, and was torn up by the roots at the moment it was dreaming that its roots were loosening. It fell. Its three hundred and sixty-five years were now as but the day of the ephemeron.

On Christmas morning, when the sun arose, the storm was passed. All the church bells were ringing joyously; and from every chimney, even the lowest in the peasant's cot, curled from the altars of the Druidical feast the blue smoke of the thanksgiving oblation. The sea became more and more calm, and on a large vessel in the offing, which had weathered the tempest during the night, were hoisted all its flags in honour of the day.

"The tree is gone – that old oak tree which was always our landmark!" cried the sailors. "It must have fallen in the storm last night. Who shall replace it? Alas! no one can."

This was the tree's funeral oration – short, but well meant – as it lay stretched at full length amidst the snow upon the shore, and over it floated the melody of the psalm tunes from the ship – hymns of Christmas joy, and thanksgivings for the salvation of the souls of mankind by Jesus Christ, and the blessed promise of everlasting life.

"Let sacred songs arise on high,
Loud hallelujahs reach the sky;
Let joy and peace each mortal share,
While hymns of praise shall fill the air."

Thus ran the old psalm, and every one out yonder, on the deck of the ship, lifted up his voice in thanksgiving and prayer, just as the old oak tree was lifted up in its last and most delightful dream on that Christmas eve.

The Wind relates the Story of Waldemar Daae and his Daughters

When the wind sweeps over the grass it ripples like water; when it sweeps over the corn, it undulates like waves of the sea. All that is the wind's dance. But listen to what the wind tells. It sings it aloud, and it is repeated amidst the trees in the wood, and carried through the loopholes and the chinks in the wall. Look how the wind chases the skies up yonder, as if they were a flock of sheep! Listen how the wind howls below through the half-open gate, as if it were the warder blowing his horn! Strangely does it sound down the chimney and in the fireplace; the fire flickers under it; and the flames, instead of ascending, shoot out towards the room, where it is warm and comfortable to sit and listen to it. Let the wind speak. It knows more tales and adventures than all of us put together. Hearken now to what it is about to relate.

It blew a tremendous blast: that was a prelude to its story.

"There lay close to the Great Belt an old castle with thick red walls," said the wind. "I knew every stone in it. I had seen them before, when they were in Marshal Stig's castle at the Næs. It was demolished. The stones were used again, and became new walls – a new building – at another place, and that was Borreby Castle as it now stands. I have seen and known the high-born ladies and gentlemen, the various generations that have dwelt in it; and now I shall tell about Waldemar Daae and his Daughters.

"He held his head so high: he was of royal extraction. He could do more than hunt a stag and drain a goblet: that would be proved some day, he said to himself.

"His proud lady, apparelled in gold brocade, walked erect over her polished inlaid floor. The tapestry was magnificent, the furniture costly, and beautifully carved; vessels of gold and silver she had in profusion; there were stores of German ale in the cellars; handsome spirited horses neighed in the stables; all was superb within Borreby Castle when wealth was there.

"And children were there; three fine girls – Idé, Johanné, and Anna Dorthea. I remember their names well even now.

"They were rich people, they were people of distinction – born in grandeur, and brought up in it. Wheugh – wheugh!" whistled the wind; then it continued the tale.

"I never saw there, as in other old mansions, the high-born lady sitting in her boudoir with her maidens and spinning-wheels. She played on the lute, and sang to it, though never the old Danish ballads, but songs in foreign languages. Here were banqueting and mirth, titled guests came from far and near, music's tones were heard, goblets rang. I could not drown the noise," said the wind. "Here were arrogance, ostentation, and display; here was power, but not our Lord."

"It was one May-day evening," said the wind. "I came from the westward. I had seen ships crushed into wrecks on the west coast of Jutland. I had hurried over the dreary heaths and green woody coast, had crossed the island of Funen, and swept over the Great Belt, and I was hoarse with blowing. Then I laid myself down to rest on the coast of Zealand, near Borreby, where there stood the forest and the charming meadows. The young men from the neighbourhood assembled there, and collected brushwood and branches of trees, the largest and driest they could find. They carried them to the village, laid them in a heap, and set fire to it; then they and the village girls sang and danced round it.

"I lay still," said the wind; "but I softly stirred one branch – one which had been placed on the bonfire by the handsomest youth. His piece of wood blazed up, blazed highest. He was chosen the leader of the rustic game, became 'the wild boar,' and had the first choice among the girls for his 'pet lamb.' There were more happiness and merriment amongst them than up at the grand house at Borreby.

"And then from the great house at Borreby came, driving in a gilded coach with six horses, the noble lady and her three daughters, so fine, so young – three lovely blossoms – rose, lily, and the pale hyacinth. The mother herself was like a flaunting tulip; she did not deign to notice one of the crowd of villagers, though they stopped their game, and courtesied and bowed with profound respect.

"Rose, lily, and the pale hyacinth – yes, I saw them all three. Whose 'pet lambs' should they one day become? I thought. The 'wild boar' for each of them would assuredly be a proud knight – perhaps a prince. Wheugh – wheugh!

"Well, their equipage drove on with them, and the young peasants went on with their dancing. And the summer advanced in the village near Borreby, in Tjæreby, and all the surrounding towns.