even see soldiers walking about with halberds. Certainly it was a very good
house to look at for amusement.
An old man lived in it, who wore knee-breeches, a coat with large brass
buttons, and a wig, which any one could see was a real wig. Every morning
an old man came to clean the rooms, and to wait upon him, otherwise the
old man in the knee-breeches would have been quite alone in the house.
Sometimes he came to one of the windows and looked out; then the little
boy nodded to him, and the old man nodded back again, till they became
acquainted, and were friends, although they had never spoken to each other;
but that was of no consequence.
The little boy one day heard his parents say, “The old man opposite is
very well off, but is terribly lonely.” The next Sunday morning the little boy
wrapped something in a piece of paper and took it to the door of the old
house, and said to the attendant who waited upon the old man, “Will you
please give this from me to the gentleman who lives here; I have two tin
soldiers, and this is one of them, and he shall have it, because I know he is
terribly lonely.”
And the old attendant nodded and looked very pleased, and then he
carried the tin soldier into the house.
Afterwards he was sent over to ask the little boy if he would not like to
pay a visit himself. His parents gave him permission, and so it was that he
gained admission to the old house.
The brassy knobs on the railings shone more brightly than ever, as if they
had been polished on account of his visit; and on the door were carved
trumpeters standing in tulips, and it seemed as if they were blowing with all
their might, their cheeks were so puffed out. “Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is
coming; Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is coming.”
Then the door opened. All round the hall hung old portraits of knights in
armor, and ladies in silk gowns; and the armor rattled, and the silk dresses
rustled. Then came a staircase which went up a long way, and then came
down a little way and led to a balcony, which was in a very ruinous state.
