Tom Thumb

Grimm Brothers

One night a poor woodman sat in his cottage, his wife sat by his side spinning.

“How lonely it is, wife,” said he, “for you and me to sit here by ourselves, without any children to play about. Other people seem so happy with their children!”

“Agree,” said the wife, “how happy would I be if I had one child! If it were no bigger than my thumb, I would love it!”

Not long afterwards her dream came true. She had a little boy, who was healthy and strong. But he was not much bigger than her thumb. So she said, “Well, now we have got what we wished for, and, little as he is, we will love him!” And they called him Thomas Thumb.

The husband and his wife fed him well, but he never grew bigger. His eyes were smart and he was a clever little fellow.

One day, as the woodman was getting ready to go into the wood to cut fuel, he said,

“I wish I had someone to bring the cart after me.”

“Oh, father,” cried Tom, “I will take care of that; the cart will be in the wood by the time you want it.”

The woodman laughed, and said,

“How can that be? You can’t reach up to the horse.”

“Never mind that, father,” said Tom, “I will get into his ear and tell him which way to go.”

“Well,” said the father, “we will try then.”

His mother put Tom into the horse’s ear. The little man told the horse how to go, crying out, “Go on!” and “Stop!”. The horse went on just as well as if the woodman had driven it himself into the wood. The horse was going a little too fast, and Tom was calling out, “Gently! gently!” when two strangers came up.

“Strange”!’ said one: “there is a cart going along, and I hear someone talking to the horse, but I can see no one.”

“Strange, indeed,” said the other; “let us follow the cart, and see where it goes.”

So they went on into the wood and came to the place where the woodman was.

Then Tom Thumb, seeing his father, cried out, “See, father, here I am with the cart, all right and safe!”

The two strangers did not know what to say. At last one said,

“That little boy will make us rich if we get him, and carry him about from town to town as a show. We must buy him!” So they went up to the woodman, and asked him what he would take for the little man.

“I won’t sell him at all,” said the father, “my own flesh and blood is dearer to me than all the silver and gold in the world.”

But Tom had a plan. He jumped to his father’s shoulder and whispered in his ear,

“Take the money, father, and let them have me. I’ll soon come back to you.”

At last the woodman said he would sell Tom to the strangers for a large piece of gold, and they paid the price.

“Where would you like to sit?” asked one of the strangers.

‘Oh, put me on your hat. I can walk about there and see the country as we go along.”

So they did as he wished.

They started their journey. When it was getting dark, then the little man said, “Let me get down, I’m tired.”

So the man took off his hat, and put him down. But Tom ran to an old mouse-hole and hid himself.

“Good night, my masters!” said he, “I’m off! Look better after me the next time.”

The strangers tried to get him out of the mouse-hole, but they couldn’t. Tom only crawled farther and farther in. And at last it became quite dark, so that they went their way without their prize.

When Tom found they were gone, he came out of his hiding place.

“What dangerous walking it is,” said he.

At last he found a large empty snail-shell.

“This is lucky,” said he, “I can sleep here very well.”

Just as he was falling asleep, he heard two men talking to each other. And one said to the other, “How can we rob that rich man’s house?”

“I’ll tell you!” cried Tom.

“What is it?” said the thief, frightened, “I’m sure I heard someone speaking.”

They stood still listening, and Tom said,

“Take me with you, and I’ll show you how to get the money.”

“But where are you?” asked they.

“Look about on the ground,” answered he.

At last the thieves found him out, and lifted him up in their hands.

“You’re so small!” they said, “what can you do for us?”

“I can get into the house, and throw you out whatever you want.”

“Hm,” said the thieves; “yes, you can help us, come along.”

When they came to the rich man’s house, Tom slipped through the window-bars into the room. And then he cried loudly, “Will you have all that is here?”

The thieves were frightened, because Tom was very loud. He said, “Quiet! They may wake up!” But Tom cried out again,

“How much will you have? Shall I throw it all out?”

The cook woke up in the next room and listened. The thieves were frightened, but they said, “Stop making jokes, throw us out some money.”

Then Tom cried out as loud as he could, “Very well! Hold your hands! Here it comes.”

The cook heard it, so she jumped out of bed, and ran to open the door. The thieves ran off as if a wolf was at their tails. The cook found nothing, and she went to bed. She thought she had a dream with her eyes open.

The little man found a nice place in the hay to finish his night’s rest. He wanted to have a good sleep and then find his way home to his father and mother.

The cook woke up early to feed the cows and took a large bundle of hay, with the little man in the middle of it. He still slept on, and woke up only when he was in the mouth of the cow.

“It is very dark,” said he; “they forgot to build windows in this room to let the sun in.”

He was already in the cow’s stomach, and more and more hay was always coming down. And he didn’t have enough space, it became smaller and smaller. At last he cried out as loud as he could, “Don’t bring me any more hay! Don’t bring me any more hay!”

The cook heard someone speak. She was sure it was the same voice that she had heard in the night. She was so frightened that she ran off as fast as she could to her master, and said,

“Sir, sir, the cow is talking!”

But the master said, “Woman, you’re mad!”

However, he went with her into the cow-house, to see what was the matter.

At the moment they came in, Tom cried out, “Don’t bring me any more hay!”

The master was very frightened. And thinking the cow went mad he told his man to kill her. So the cow was killed, and thrown out upon a dunghill.

Tom tried to get out from the cow’s stomach, but that at that moment a hungry wolf jumped out, and swallowed up the whole stomach, with Tom in it and ran away.

Tom cried out, “My good friend, I can show you where you can eat well.”

“Where’s that?” said the wolf.

“In the house of a woodman,” said Tom, describing his father’s house. “You can get into the kitchen and then into the pantry. There you will find cakes, ham, beef, cold chicken, pig, apple-dumplings, and everything that your heart can wish.”

The wolf did not want to be asked twice. So that very night he went to the house and got into the kitchen, and then into the pantry. He ate and drank there a lot to the moment when he could not move.

This was just what Tom wanted. He began to cry and shout, making all the noise he could.

“Quiet!” said the wolf, “you’ll wake everybody up in the house.”

“What’s that to me?” said the little man; “you have eaten well, now I want be merry myself”; and he began, singing and shouting as loud as he could.

The woodman and his wife woke up and came closer to the pantry. They saw a wolf was there, and the woodman ran for his axe, and gave his wife a big knife.

“Stay behind,” said the woodman, “and when I have knocked him on the head you must rip him up with the knife.”

Tom heard all this, and cried out, “Father, father! I am here, the wolf has swallowed me.”

And his father said, “Heaven be praised! We have found our dear child again”. The woodman hit the wolf on the head, and killed him on the spot. They cut his body, and set Tom free.

“Ah!” said the father, “what fears we have had for you!”

“Yes, father,” answered he, “I have travelled all over the world, I think, in one way or other, since we parted; and now I am very glad to come home and get fresh air again.”

“Why, where have you been?” said his father.

“I have been in a mouse-hole, and in a snail-shell, and down a cow’s stomach, and in the wolf’s belly. And now here I am again, safe and sound.”

“Well,” said they, “You came back and we will not sell you again for all the riches in the world.”

Then they hugged and kissed their dear little son. They gave him a lot to eat and drink, because he was very hungry. So Master Thumb stayed at home with his father and mother. He was a traveler, and had done and seen so many fine things, and liked telling the whole story. He always agreed that, after all, there’s no place like HOME!

The Nightingale and yhe Rose

O. Wilde

“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,” cried the young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red rose.”

From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard him. She looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. “I have read all the books, and I know all the secrets of philosophy. But it is only the red rose that matters.”

“He is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Every night I sing songs about love and lovers and now I can see one of them. His hair is dark, and his lips are red, his face is pale.”

“The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,” said the young Student, “and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me. If I bring her a red rose, I will hold her in my arms. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I will sit lonely, and she will pass me by. And my heart will break.”

“He is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is dearer than fine opals.”

“The musicians will play their instruments,” said the young Student, “and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. But no, she will not dance, because I have no red rose to give her”; and he closed his eyes with his hands and cried and cried.

“Why is he crying?” asked a little Green Lizard.

“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly.

“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy.

“He is crying for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.

“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!”

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sadness. She sat in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her wings, and flew to the garden.

There was a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it.

“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”

But the Tree shook its head.

“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows near the river, and maybe he will give you what you want.”

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree.

“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”

But the Tree shook its head.

“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the flowers on the field. But go to my brother who grows near the Student’s window, and maybe he will give you what you want.”

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing near the Student’s window.

“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”

But the Tree shook its head.

“My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the coral. But the storm has broken my branches, and I will have no roses at all this year.”

“One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale, “only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?”

“There is a way,” answered the Tree; “but it is so terrible that I can’t tell it to you.”

“Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not afraid.”

“If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must create it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart. Your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.”

“I will die to pay a price for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “I love Life. I love sitting in the green wood, and to watch the Sun and the Moon. But Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?”

So she spread her wings and flew to the Student.

The young Student was still lying on the grass and crying.

“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy! You will have your red rose. I will create it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you is that you will be a true lover. Love is wiser than Philosophy.”

The Student looked up, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him. He only knew the things from the books.

The Oak-tree understood, and felt sad. He loved the little Nightingale.

“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I will feel very lonely when you are gone.”

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was wonderful.

“She sings well,” the Student said to himself, “but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. She thinks only about music, she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything.” And he went into his room, and lay down on his little bed, and began to think of his love. After a time, he fell asleep.

When the Nightingale saw the Moon in the sky, she flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her heart against the thorn. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast.

She sang first about love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And there came a wonderful rose on the top of the Rose-tree. The rose was pale.

The Tree cried to the Nightingale, “Press closer, little Nightingale or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and sang louder and louder. She sang about love in the soul of a man and a woman.

The rose was now pink, like the lips of a girl.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale, “Press closer, little Nightingale, or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart. She was in pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song about Love and Death.

And the wonderful rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. But the Nightingale’s voice grew weaker, and her little wings began to beat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The red rose heard it, and opened its petals to the cold morning air.

“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now”; but the Nightingale made no answer. She was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And the Student opened his window and looked out.

“Oh!” he cried; “here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name!”

He plucked it and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting next to the window, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.”

But the girl was not satisfied.

“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and, besides, the Officer’s nephew has sent me some real jewels. Everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”

“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student angrily. He threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “And you are very rude. Who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Officer’s nephew has!”

She got up from her chair and went into the house.

“What a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away. “It does not prove anything, I will go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.”

So he returned to his room and pulled out a dusty book, and began to read.