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_The Story of the Year_ was written by Hans Christian Andersen
(1805-1875), and was translated from the Danish by
M. R. James (1862-1936) as part of his
_Hans Andersen Forty-Two Stories_ (1930).

Title: Hans Andersen Forty-Two Stories -- The Story of the Year
Author: Andersen, Hans Christian (1805-1875)
Translator: James, Montague Rhodes (1862-1936)
Date of first publication: 1930
Place and date of edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Faber and Faber, 1953
Date first posted: 12 January 2010
Date last updated: 12 January 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #455

This ebook was produced by:
David T. Jones, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




The Story of the Year

by

Hans Christian Andersen

(from _Hans Andersen Forty-Two Stories_ [1930],
translated by M. R. James)


It was late in January, and a fearful snowstorm. The snow came flying
in a drifting whirl through streets and lanes. The outside of the
window-panes was fairly plastered over with it, and it plumped down
from the roofs in masses, and caused a stampede among the people. They
rushed, they flew into each other's arms, clasped each other tight
for a moment, and for just so long got a firm foothold. Carriages and
horses were powdered all over; the servants turned their backs to the
carriages and rode backwards against the wind, foot passengers took
care to keep in the lee of some cart which could only move slowly
along in the deep snow; and when at last the storm sank to rest, and a
narrow path had been cleared along the house-fronts, people when they
met face to face stood still in it. Neither liked to take the first
step and walk into the deep snow, so that the other could step by.
Silent they stood, till finally by a sort of tacit agreement, each of
them sacrificed one leg and let that plunge into the snowdrift.

Towards evening it became dead calm. The sky looked as if it had been
swept and made more lofty and transparent: the stars looked brand new,
and some of them were ever so blue and bright--and there was a
cracking frost--anyhow, the top layer of snow managed to become so
hard that by the morning it could bear the sparrows. They hopped
about, up here and down there, wherever any shovelling had been done,
but little enough could they find to eat, and how they did freeze!

"Twit!" said one of them to another. "This is what people call the New
Year. Why, it's worse than the old one; we might just as well have
stuck to that. I'm dissatisfied with the whole thing, and I've every
reason to be."

"Yes, just now the humans were running about, shooting in the New
Year," said a little small frost-nipped sparrow; "they smashed pots
against the doors and were clean out of their wits with delight at the
old year having gone; and I was glad too, for I expected we should get
some warm weather. But nothing's come of it all; it's freezing a deal
harder than before. The humans have got wrong in their reckoning."

"That they have," said a third. He was old, and white on the top of
his head. "They've got hold of something they call the Almanack. It's
some of their own invention, I suppose, and everything's to go
according to that; only it doesn't. When the Spring comes, then the
year will begin. That's Nature's order, and that's what I go by."

"But when will the Spring come?" asked the others.

"It'll come when the stork comes: but there's a good deal of
uncertainty about him, and here in the town there's nobody that knows
anything about it. They understand that better out in the country.
Shall we fly out there and wait? One'll be nearer the Spring there."

"Yes, that may be all very well," said one of them who had gone about
chirping for some time without really saying anything. "I've got some
advantages here in the town which I'm afraid I might miss out there.
Round here is a house with a family of humans who've had the very
sensible notion of building three or four flower-pots into the wall
with the big mouth inside and the bottom out, and in the bottom
there's been cut a hole big enough for me to fly in and out of. I and
my husband have got a nest there, and all our young ones have flown
out of that. The human family have, of course, arranged it all so as
to have the pleasure of looking at us, else they'd never have done it.
They throw out breadcrumbs, too--for their own satisfaction--and so we
get our food: one is provided for in a kind of way--and so I think I
shall stop, and my husband too--though we're very much
dissatisfied--still, we shall stop."

"And we shall fly out into the country to see whether the Spring isn't
coming." And off they flew.

And out in the country it was proper winter: freezing several degrees
harder than in the town. The keen wind blew far over the snow-covered
fields. The farmer with his great mittens on sat in his sledge and
beat himself with his arms to get the cold out of them. His whip lay
across his lap; the skinny horses galloped till they smoked again: the
snow crackled, and the sparrows hopped in the ruts and froze. "Twit,
when's the Spring coming? It stays so long."

"So long!" rang a voice far over the fields from the high slope
covered with snow. And it might have been an echo that one heard; or,
again, it might have been the voice of the strange old man who sat
there on the top of the snowdrift in the wind and weather. He was
quite white--like a farmer in a white frieze coat--with long white
hair, white beard, very pale, with large bright eyes.

"Who's that chap over there?" asked the sparrows.

"I know that," said an old Raven who was sitting on the gate-post, and
who was condescending enough to recognize that we are all little birds
in God's sight, and so entered into talk with the sparrows and
explained matters. "I know who that old chap is. That's Winter, the
old man from last year. He's not dead, as the Almanack says; no, he's
more like a regent for the little Prince Spring, who's coming. Yes,
Winter holds the reins. Ugh, it makes you crackle, don't it, little
ones?"

"Yes, now, isn't that just what I was saying?" said the littlest
sparrow. "That Almanack's nothing but a make-up of the humans: it
isn't arranged according to Nature. They ought to leave that to us--us
that's organized more delicate!"

And a week went by--almost two weeks. The wood was black, the frozen
lake lay heavily still and looked like lead that has cooled. The
clouds--no, they were not clouds, they were wet ice-cold mists--hung
over all the land. The big black crows went in flights without a caw.
It seemed as if all things slept. . . . There shot a sunbeam out over
the lake, and it shone like molten tin. The snow on the fields and on
the slopes did not glisten as it used--but the white shape, Winter
himself, still sat there with his gaze turned steadily towards the
South. He took no note of how the snow carpet sank, as it were, into
the earth, how here and there a little grass-green space emerged, and
in a moment was alive with sparrows.

"Tweet, tweet, is it coming, the Spring?"

"Spring!" It rang out over field and meadow and through the dark brown
woodlands where the moss shone fresh and green on the tree-trunks. And
through the air came flying from the South the first two storks. On
the back of each sat a fair little child--a boy and a girl; and they
kissed the earth in greeting; and where they set foot, white blossoms
grew up from beneath the snow. Hand in hand they went up to the old
ice-man, Winter, and laid themselves on his breast for yet another
greeting. And in that instant all three were hidden from sight, and
the whole landscape with them: a thick mist, close and heavy, veiled
all things. A little after it cleared a wind sprang up. Onward it
came, with mighty gusts, and cleared the fog away. The sun shone out
warm. Winter himself had vanished. The fair children of the Spring sat
on the throne of the Year.

"That's what I call New Year," said the sparrow. "Now, no doubt, we
shall get our rights again, and some compensation for the hard
winter."

Whichever way the two children turned, green buds shot out from bush
and tree, the grass grew taller, the sown fields showed brighter and
brighter green, and all about her the little girl scattered flowers.
She had multitudes of them in her lap, they seemed to teem forth of
it, it was always full, however lavishly she strewed them; in her
haste she shook a whole snow-fall of blossom out over the apple and
peach trees, so that they stood clad in full beauty before they had
properly got their green leaves. And she clapped her hands and the boy
clapped his, and out came birds, one could not tell whence, and all of
them twittered and sang: "Spring is come!"

It was a lovely sight, and many an old granny came out of her house
door into the sunshine and straightened herself up and looked out over
the yellow blossoms that decked all the meadows just exactly as they
had in her young days. The world had turned young again. "Blessed
weather it is out here to-day!" said she.

The forest was still brown-green, bud beside bud, but the woodruff was
out, fresh and fragrant, the violets stood there in crowds, and there
were anemones, cowslips and oxslips; nay, in every blade of grass was
there sap and strength; it was just a broidered carpet to sit upon,
and there sat the bride and bridegroom of the Spring and held each
other by the hand and sang and smiled and grew.

A gentle rain from heaven fell on them, but they marked it not. The
raindrops and the tears of joy were all one. The bride and bridegroom
kissed, and in a moment the forest sprang to life. When next the sun
rose, all the woods were green.

Hand in hand went the bridal pair beneath the fresh waving roof of
leaves, where only the rays of sunlight and the flecking shadows
varied the tints of green. A virginal purity and a refreshing
fragrance were in the delicate leaves; clear and living babbled river
and brook in and out of the velvet-green reeds and over the dappled
stones. "Full for ever and always it is and it shall be," said all
Nature. And the cuckoo called and the lark sang, and it was pleasant
Spring. All the same, the willows kept woolly mittens over their
flowers: they were so horribly cautious, and that is most tiresome.

And so days passed by and weeks passed by, and the heat came
sweltering down. Hot waves of air passed through the corn, which grew
yellower and yellower. The white lotus of the North on the woodland
lakes spread out its great green leaves over the watery mirror, and
the fish took shelter beneath them; and on the lee-side of the wood,
where the sun blazed on the farmhouse wall and warmed the new-sprung
roses through and through--where the cherry-tree boughs hung full of
juicy black, almost sun-hot fruit, the beautiful Queen of Summer sat
and sang--even she whom we have seen a child and a bride; and she
gazed at the dark climbing clouds which in great billows like
mountains, blue-black and heavy, were rising higher and higher. From
three sides they gathered: then downward and down, like a sea
enchanted and turned to stone, they lowered themselves toward the
forest, where everything was hushed as under a spell. Every breeze was
laid, every bird was still: there was a gravity, an expectation, over
all Nature. But on road and path everyone was hurrying--driving,
riding or on foot--to get under shelter. All at once it lightened as
if the sun had burst forth, dazzling, blinding, consuming, and there
was darkness again, with a rolling crash. The rain poured down in
torrents--it was night--then day--stillness--then a roar. The young
brown-plumaged reeds in the marsh swayed in long billows, the boughs
of the forest were veiled in sheets of rain--darkness came--then
light--silence--and then a crash. Grass and corn lay beaten down,
deluged, as if they could never rise again. Quickly the rain dwindled
to single drops, the sun shone out, and from blade and leaf the
water-drops glistened like pearls; birds sang, fishes leapt up from
the stream, midges danced: and out on a rock in the salt, rain-whipped
sea-water sat Summer himself, the strong man with the vigorous limbs,
his hair drenched--revived by the cool bath he sat in the hot
sunshine. All Nature about him was revived, everything was gay, strong
and beautiful. It was Summer, warm lovely Summer.

Fresh and sweet was the scent that came from the thick-grown clover
fields. The bees hummed there about the ancient moot-place. The
brambles twined upward around the altar stone which, washed by the
rain, glistened in the sunshine; and from it out flew the queen bee
with her swarm, and made wax and honey. No one saw them but the Summer
and his mighty spouse; it was for them that the altar-table stood
covered with the thank-offerings of Nature.

And the evening sky gleamed like pure gold--no cathedral dome so nobly
decked--and the moon shone betwixt the glow of evening and the glow of
dawn. It was summer-time.

And days passed and weeks passed. The bright sickles of the harvesters
shone in the cornfields. The branches of the apple trees bent low
beneath their red and yellow fruit, the hops smelt delicious, hanging
in great clusters, and under the hazel bushes, where the nuts grew in
heavy bunches, rested the husband and the wife, Summer and his spouse,
grown grave.

"What wealth!" said she. "All round us is blessing, homely and good:
and yet I cannot tell why, I long for rest--quiet--I know no word for
it. They are ploughing the fields all afresh; more and yet more
mankind is after gaining. Look, the storks are gathering in groups and
following the plough at a distance--the bird of Egypt, that brought us
through the air. You remember the time we two came here as children
into the land of the North? We brought flowers, fair sunshine and
green leafage. The wind has dealt roughly with them now. They are
growing brown and dark like the trees of the South; but they do not,
like those, bear golden fruit."

"Is that what you would see?" said Summer. "Then have your pleasure."
And he raised his arm, and the leaves of the forest were tinted with
red and with gold, a blaze of colour came over all the woodland: the
rose bushes shone with fiery hips, the elder-trees were hung with
masses of heavy dark berries, the wild chestnuts fell ripened out of
the dark-green husks, and within the wood the violets blossomed a
second time.

But the Queen of the Year grew yet more quiet and pale. "It blows
cold," she said, "the night brings damp mists. I long for the land of
my childhood."

And she saw the storks take their flight--every one of them--and she
stretched her hands out after them. She looked up at the nests that
stood empty; in one the tall cornflower had grown up, in another the
yellow charlock, as if the nest were only meant for a shelter and
fence for them, and up came the sparrows.

"Twit, what's gone with the gentlefolk? Why, they can't bear the wind
blowing on 'em, so they've left the country! A pleasant journey to
'em." Yellower and yellower grew the leaves in the wood: one after
another they fell. The storms of Autumn were sounding; it was late in
harvest-time. And on the yellow fallen leaves lay the Queen of the
Year, gazing with gentle eyes toward the shining stars, and her
husband stood by her. A gust of wind whirled up the leaves--they fell
to earth again, and she was gone. Only a butterfly, the last of the
year, was fluttering through the chilly air. And the wet mists came
and the icy blast, and the long dark nights. The King of the Year
stood there with snow-white hair, but he knew it not, he thought it
was the snowflakes that fell from the clouds. A thin covering of snow
lay far and wide over the green fields.

And the church bells rang out for Christmas.

"The birthday bells are ringing," said the King of the Year. "Soon
will the new King and Queen be born, and I shall have won my rest like
her--rest in the shining star."

And in the fresh green fir-wood, where the snow lay, the Angel of
Christmas stood, blessing the young trees that were to deck his feast.

"Joy in the house and beneath the green boughs," said the old King of
the Year--a few weeks had aged him into a snow-white veteran. "The
time hastens on towards my rest, and the young couple of the year will
soon take the sceptre and crown."

"Still the power is yours," said the Angel of Christmas, "the power
and not the rest. Let the snow lie and keep the young seed warm all
about you. Learn to endure that homage should be paid to another while
yet you are the Prince: learn to be forgotten and yet go on
 living.
The time of your freedom will come when the Spring comes."

"When will the Spring come?" Winter asked.

"It will come when the stork comes."

And with white locks and snow-white hair, Winter sat, cold as ice, old
and bent, yet strong as the winter wind and the hardness of ice, high
up on the snowdrift of the upland, gazing southward ever, just as the
Winter before had sat and gazed. The ice cracked, the snow creaked,
the skaters circled on the bright lakes, and ravens and crows stood
sharply out against the white background. There was no stir of wind,
and in the still air Winter clenched his fists, and the ice grew
fathoms thick between shore and shore.

Then out came the sparrows from the town again and asked: "Who's that
old man over there?" And the raven sat there again--or a son of his,
which comes to the same--and told them: "That's Winter, the old man
from last year. He's not dead, as the Almanacks say, but regent for
the Spring who's coming."

"When is the Spring coming?" said the sparrows. "When it does, we
shall have a good time, and better management. The old one is no good
at all."

And in silent thought Winter beckoned to the black leafless wood,
where every tree showed clear the beautiful form and curve of its
branches; and in their winter slumber the icy mists of the clouds
lowered themselves. The Ruler was dreaming of the days of his youth
and of his manhood; and towards dawn the whole forest stood fair with
hoar frost. It was Winter's dream of Summer. The sunshine melted the
snow from the branches.

"When is the Spring coming?" asked the sparrows.

"Spring!" It came sounding like an echo from the upland where the snow
lay. The sun shone out, warmer and warmer, the snow shrank, the birds
twittered: "Spring is coming!"

And aloft through the air the first stork came flying; a second
followed; a fair child sat on the back of each, and they lighted down
upon the green field, and they kissed the earth, and they kissed the
old silent man, and like Moses on the Mount he vanished, borne away by
the misty cloud.

The Story of the Year was finished.

"That's all very fine and large," said the sparrows, "and it's also
extremely pretty; but it doesn't agree with the Almanack, so it must
be wrong."




[End of _The Story of the Year_ by Hans Christian Andersen, from
_Hans Andersen Forty-Two Stories_, translated by M. R. James]
