song of mourning! Hear the cry of the priest! In her long red robe stands the
Hindoo widow by the funeral pile. The flames rise around her as she places
herself on the dead body of her husband; but the Hindoo woman is thinking
of the living one in that circle; of him, her son, who lighted those flames.
Those shining eyes trouble her heart more painfully than the flames which
will soon consume her body to ashes. Can the fire of the heart be
extinguished in the flames of the funeral pile?”
“I don’t understand that at all,” said little Gerda.
“That is my story,” said the tiger-lily.
What, says the convolvulus? “Near yonder narrow road stands an old
knight’s castle; thick ivy creeps over the old ruined walls, leaf over leaf,
even to the balcony, in which stands a beautiful maiden. She bends over the
balustrades, and looks up the road. No rose on its stem is fresher than she;
no apple-blossom, wafted by the wind, floats more lightly than she moves.
Her rich silk rustles as she bends over and exclaims, ‘Will he not come?’
“Is it Kay you mean?” asked Gerda.
“I am only speaking of a story of my dream,” replied the flower.
What, said the little snow-drop? “Between two trees a rope is hanging;
there is a piece of board upon it; it is a swing. Two pretty little girls, in
dresses white as snow, and with long green ribbons fluttering from their
hats, are sitting upon it swinging. Their brother who is taller than they are,
stands in the swing; he has one arm round the rope, to steady himself; in
one hand he holds a little bowl, and in the other a clay pipe; he is blowing
bubbles. As the swing goes on, the bubbles fly upward, reflecting the most
beautiful varying colors. The last still hangs from the bowl of the pipe, and
sways in the wind. On goes the swing; and then a little black dog comes
running up. He is almost as light as the bubble, and he raises himself on his
hind legs, and wants to be taken into the swing; but it does not stop, and the
dog falls; then he barks and gets angry. The children stoop towards him, and
the bubble bursts. A swinging plank, a light sparkling foam picture,-that is
my story.”
