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"I believe I must go out into the
world again," said the duckling. "Yes, do," said the hen. So the duckling left
the cottage, and soon found water on which it could swim and dive, but was
avoided by all other animals, because of its ugly appearance. Autumn came, and
the leaves in the forest turned to orange and gold. then, as winter approached,
the wind caught them as they fell and whirled them in the cold air. The clouds,
heavy with hail and snow-flakes, hung low in the sky, and the raven stood on the
ferns crying, "Croak, croak."
The clouds, heavy with hail and
snow-flakes, hung low in the sky, and the raven stood on the ferns crying,
"Croak, croak." It made one shiver with cold to look at him. All this was very
sad for the poor little duckling. One evening, just as the sun set amid radiant
clouds, there came a large flock of beautiful birds out of the bushes. The
duckling had never seen any like them before. They were swans, and they curved
their graceful necks, while their soft plumage shown with dazzling
whiteness.
They uttered a singular cry, as they spread their glorious
wings and flew away from those cold regions to warmer countries across the sea.
As they mounted higher and higher in the air, the ugly little duckling felt
quite a strange sensation as he watched them. He whirled himself in the water
like a wheel, stretched out his neck towards them, and uttered a cry so strange
that it frightened himself. Could he ever forget those beautiful, happy birds;
and when at last they were out of his sight, he dived under the water, and rose
again almost beside himself with excitement.
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What a story it was! "Well, and that will do," said
the woman. "Now look at the sloe bush." "We have also some near relations in the
home of the potatoes, but higher towards the north than they grew," said the
Sloes. "There were Northmen, from Norway, who steered westward through mist and
storm to an unknown land, where, behind ice and snow, they found plants and
green meadows, and bushes with blue-black grapes- sloe bushes. The grapes were
ripened by the frost just as we are.
The grapes were ripened by the frost
just as we are. And they called the land 'wine-land,' that is, 'Groenland,' or
'Sloeland.'" "That is quite a romantic story," said the young man. "Yes,
certainly. But now come with me," said the wise woman, and she led him to the
bee-hive. He looked into it. What life and labor! There were bees standing in
all the passages, waving their wings, so that a wholesome draught of air might
blow through the great manufactory; that was their business.
Then there
came in bees from without, who had been born with little baskets on their feet;
they brought flower-dust, which was poured out, sorted, and manufactured into
honey and wax. They flew in and out. The queen-bee wanted to fly out, but then
all the other bees must have gone with her. It was not yet the time for that,
but still she wanted to fly out; so the others bit off her majesty's wings, and
she had to stay where she was. "Now get upon the earth bank," said the wise
woman.
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The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in
color, charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant's cradle, he stands on
the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant's head. He
flies through the chamber of content, and brings sunshine into it, and the
violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet. But the Phoenix is not the bird
of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the
plains of Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland
summer.
Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England's coal mines,
he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook that rests on the
knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters of
the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she beholds him.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of
song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven, and
flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp
of Iceland swept the swan's red beak; on Shakspeare's shoulder he sat in the
guise of Odin's raven, and whispered in the poet's ear "Immortality!" and at the
minstrels' feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.
The
Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise, and thou
kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise,
and perchance thou didst turn away from him towards the sparrow who sat with
tinsel on his wings. The Bird of Paradise- renewed each century- born in flame,
ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich,
but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth- "The
Phoenix of Arabia."
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