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安徒生童话故事第50篇：一年的故事The Story of the Year
引导语：一年会发生很多的事情，下面是小编收集的一篇安徒生童话故事关于一年的，欢迎大家阅读!
这是一月的末尾;可怕的暴风雪在外面呼啸。雪花扫过街道和小巷;窗玻璃外面似乎糊满了一层雪;积雪整块整块地从屋顶上朝下面坠落。人们东跑西窜起来;你撞到我的怀里，我倒到你的怀里;他们只有紧紧地相互抱住，才能把脚跟站稳。马车和马好像都扑上了一层粉似的。马夫把背靠着车子，逆着风把车往回赶。车子只能在深雪中慢慢地移动，而行人则在车子挡住了风的一边走。当暴风雪最后平息下来以后，当房屋之间露出一条小路的时候，人们一碰头，仍然是停下来站着不动。谁也不愿意先挪开步子，自动站到旁边的深雪里去，让别人通过。他们这样静静地站着，直到最后大家好像有了默契似地，每人牺牲一条腿，把它伸向深深的雪堆里面去。
天黑的时候，天气变得晴朗起来了。天空好像是打扫过似的，比以前更高阔、更透明了。星星似乎都是崭新的，有几颗还是分外地纯净和明亮哩。天冷得发冻，冻得嗦嗦地响。这使得积雪的外层一下子就变硬了，明天早晨麻雀就可以在它上面散步。这些小鸟儿在雪扫过了的地上跑跑跳跳;但是它们找不到任何东西吃，它们的确在挨冻。
“吱吱喳喳!”这一只对另一只说，“人们却把这叫做新年!比起旧年来，它真糟糕透了!我们还不如把那个旧年留下来好。我感到很不高兴，而且我有不高兴的理由。”
“是的，人们在跑来跑去，在庆贺新年，”一只冻得发抖的小麻雀说。“他们拿着盆盆罐罐往门上打①，快乐得发狂，因为旧年过去了。我也很高兴，因为我希望暖和的天气就会到来，但是这个希望落了空——天气比以前冻得更厉害!人们把时间计算错了!”
“他们确是弄错了!”第三只麻雀说。它的年纪老，顶上还有一撮白头发。“他们有个叫做日历的东西。这是他们自己的发明，因此每件事情都是照它安排的!但是这样却行不通。只有春天到来的时候，一年才算开始——这是大自然的规律。我就是照这办事的。”
“不过春天在什么时候到来呢?”别的几只一齐问。
“鹳鸟回来的时候，春天也就到来了。不过鹳鸟的行踪不能肯定，而且住在这儿城里的人谁也不知道这类的事情;只有他们乡下人才能知道得更多一点。我们飞到乡下去，在那儿等待好不好?在那儿，我们是更接近春天的。”
“是的，那也很好!”一只跳了很久的麻雀说;它吱吱喳喳叫了一阵，没有说出什么了不起的话语。“我在城里有许多方便;飞到乡下以后，我恐怕难免要怀恋它。在这附近的一个房子里有一个人类的家庭。他们很聪明，在墙边放了三四个花盆，并且把它们的口朝里，底朝外。花盆上打了一个小洞，大得足够使我飞出飞进。我和我的丈夫就在这里面筑了一个窝。我们的孩子们都是从这儿飞出去的。人类的家庭当然是为了要欣赏我们才作这样的布置的，否则他们就不会这样办了。他们还撒了些面包屑，这也是为了他们自己的欣赏。所以我们吃的东西也有了;这倒好像他们是在供养我们哩。所以我想，我还不如住下来，我的丈夫也住下来，虽然我们感到并不太高兴——但是我们还是要住下来了!”
“那么我们就飞到乡下去，看看春天是不是快要来了!”于是它们就飞走了。
乡下还是严酷的冬天;寒冷的程度要比城里厉害得多。刺骨的寒风在铺满了雪的田野上吹。农民戴着无指手套，坐在雪橇上，挥动着双臂来发出一点热力。鞭子在膝头上搁着，瘦马在奔跑——跑得全身冒出蒸汽来。雪发出碎裂声，麻雀在车辙里跳来跳去，冻得发抖：“吱吱!春天什么时候到来呢?它来得真慢!”
“真慢!”田野对面那座盖满了雪的小山发出这样一个声音。这可能是我们听到的一个回音，但是也许是那个奇怪的老头儿在说话。他在寒风和冰冻中，高高地坐在一堆雪上。他是相当白了，像一个穿着白粗绒外套的种田人一样。他有很长的白头发、白胡子、苍白的面孔和一双又大又蓝的眼睛。
“那个老头子是谁呢?”麻雀们问。
“我知道!”一只老乌鸦说。它坐在一个篱笆的栏栅上，相当谦虚地承认我们在上帝面前都是一群平等的小鸟，因此它愿意跟麻雀讲几句话，对它们做些解释。“我知道这老头子是谁。他就是‘冬天’——去年的老人。他不像历书上说的，并没有死去;没有，他却是快要到来的那个小王子‘春天’的保护人。是的，冬天在这儿统治着。噢!你们还在发抖，你们这些小家伙!”
“是的，我不是已经说过么?”最小的那只麻雀说。“历书不过是人类的一种发明罢了;它跟大自然并不符合!他们应该让我们来做这些事，我们要比他们聪明得多。”
一个星期过去了;两个星期又差不多过去了。森林是黑的;湖上的冰结得又硬又厚，像一块坚硬的铅。云块——的确也不能算是云块;而是潮湿的、冰冻的浓雾——低低地笼罩着土地。大黑乌鸦成群地飞着，一声也不叫，好像一切东西都睡着了似的。这时有一道太阳光在湖上滑过，像一片熔化了的铅似地发着亮光。田野和山丘上的积雪没有像过去那样发出闪光，但是那个白色的人形——“冬天”本人——仍然坐在那儿，他的眼睛紧紧地瞪着南方。他没有注意到，雪铺的地毯在向地下沉，这儿那儿有小片的绿草地在出现，而草上挤满了无数的麻雀。它们叫着：“吱呀!吱呀!春天现在到来了吗?”
“春天!”这个呼声在田野上、在草原上升起来了。它穿过深棕色的树林——这儿树干上的青苔发出深绿色的闪光。于是从南方飞来了两只最早的鹳鸟;它们每一只的背上坐着两个美丽的孩子②——一个是男孩子，一个是女孩子。他们飞了一个吻，向这大地敬礼。凡是他们的脚所接触的地方，白色的花儿就从雪底下回出来。然后他们手挽着手走向那个年老的冰人——“冬天”。他们依偎在他的胸脯上，拥抱他。在此同时他们三个人就不见了，周围的一切景象也消失了。一层又厚又潮的、又黑又浓的烟雾把一切都笼罩住了。不一会儿风吹起来了。它奔驰着，它呼啸着，把雾气赶走，使得太阳温暖地照出来。冬天老人消逝了，春天的美丽孩子坐上了这一年的皇位。
“这就是我所谓的新年!”一只麻雀说，“我们重新获得了我们的权利，作为这个严峻的冬天的报偿。”
凡是这两个孩子所到的地方，绿芽就在灌木丛上或树上冒出来，草也长得更高，麦田慢慢染上一层绿色，变得越来越可爱了。于是那个小姑娘就在四处散着花。她提起身前的围裙，围裙里兜满了花儿——花儿简直像是从那里面生出来的一样，因为，不管她怎样热心地向四处散着花朵，她的围裙里总是满的。她怀着一片热忱，在苹果树上和桃树上撒下一层雪片一样的花朵，使得它们在绿叶还没有长好以前，就已经美得可爱了。
于是她就拍着手，那男孩子也拍着手。接着就有许多鸟儿飞来了——谁也不知道它们从哪儿飞来的。它们喃喃地叫着，唱着：“春天到来了!”
这是一幅美丽的景色。许多老祖母蹒跚地走出门来，走到太阳光里来。她们简直像年轻的时候一样，欢快地四处游玩，观赏那些田野里遍地长着的黄花。世界又变得年轻了。“今天外面真是快乐!”老祖母说。
森林仍然是棕绿色的，布满了花苞。又香又新鲜的车叶草已经长出来了。紫罗兰遍地都有，还有秋牡丹和樱草花;它们的每片叶子里都充满了汁液和力量。这的确是一张可以坐的、美丽的地毯，而一对年轻人也真的手挽着手地坐在它上面，唱着歌，微笑着，生长着。
一阵毛毛细雨从天上向他们降落下来，但是他们却没有注意到它。因为雨点和欢乐的眼泪混在一起，变成同样的水滴。这对新婚夫妇互相吻着，而当他们正在吻着的时候，树林就开始欣欣向荣地生长。太阳升起来了，所有的森林都染上了一层绿色。
这对新婚的年轻人手挽着手，在垂着的新鲜叶簇下面散着步。太阳光和阴影在这些绿叶上组合出变幻无穷的可爱色调。这些细嫩的叶子里充满了处女般的纯洁和新鲜的香气。溪涧晶莹地、快乐地在天鹅绒般的绿色灯芯草中间，在五光十色的小石子上，潺潺地流着。整个大自然似乎在说：“世界是丰饶的，世界将永远是丰饶的!”杜鹃在唱着歌，百灵鸟也在唱着歌：这是美丽的春天。但是，柳树已经在它们的花朵上戴上了羊毛般的手套——它们把自己保护得太仔细了，这真使人感到讨厌。
许多日子过去了，许多星期过去了，炎热的天气就接踵而来。热浪从那渐渐变黄的麦林中袭来。北国的雪白的睡莲，在山区镜子般的湖上，展开巨大的绿叶子。鱼儿跑到它们下面歇凉。在树林挡着风的一边，太阳照到农家屋子的墙上，暖着正在开放的玫瑰花;樱桃树上悬着充满了汗液的、红得发黑的、被太阳光晒热了的浆果。这儿坐着那位美丽的“夏天”少妇——她就是我们先前所看到的那个小孩和后来的新嫁娘。她的视线在盯着一堆正在密集的乌云;它们像重叠的山峰，又青又沉重，一层比一层高。它们是从三方面集拢来的。它们像变成了化石的、倒悬的大海一样，向这树林压下来;而这树林，像着了魔一样，变得寂然无声。空中没有一点动静;每一只飞鸟都变得哑然。大自然中有一种庄严的气氛——有一种紧张的沉寂。但是在大路和小径上，行人、骑马的人和坐车子的人都在忙于找隐蔽的处所。
这时好像是从太阳里爆裂出来的闪光，在燃烧着，在耀眼，在把一切都吞没掉。一声轰雷把黑暗又带回来。大雨在倾盆地下泻。一会儿黑夜，一会儿白天;一会儿静寂，一会儿发出巨响。沼地上细嫩的、棕色羽毛般的芦苇，像长条的波浪似地前后摇曳着。树林里的枝桠笼罩在水雾里。接着又是黑暗，又是闪光;又是静寂，又是巨响。草和麦子被打到地上，浸在水里，好像永远不能再起来似的。但是不一会儿雨就变成了轻柔的细点;太阳从云层里出来了;水滴像珍珠似地在叶子和草上发出闪光;鸟儿在歌唱;鱼儿从湖水上跃出来;蚊虫在阳光里跳着舞。在那咸味的、起伏波动着的海水中的大礁石上，坐着“夏天”本人——他是一个强健的人，有粗壮的肢体和滴着水的长发。他坐在温暖的太阳光里，洗完冷水浴后，更显得精神抖擞。四周的大自然又复活起来了;一切都显得丰茂、强壮和美丽。这是夏天，温暖的、可爱的夏天。
从那一片丰茂的苜蓿地上升起一阵愉快和甜美的香气;蜜蜂在一个庙会旧址上嗡嗡地唱歌。荆棘在那个作为祭坛的石桌上蔓延着。这个祭坛，经过了雨洗，在太阳光中射出光来。蜂后带着她的一群蜜蜂向那儿飞去，忙着制造蜡和蜜。只有“夏天”和他强健的妻子看到了这情景。这个堆满了大自然的供品的祭坛，就是为他们而设的。
黄昏的天空射出金光，任何教堂的圆顶都没有这样华丽。月光在晚霞和朝霞之间亮着③：这是夏天。
许多日子过去了，许多星期过去了，收获人的明晃晃的镰刀在麦田里发着光;苹果树枝结着红而带黄的果实，弯下来了。蛇麻一丛一丛地低垂着，发出甜美的香气。榛子林下悬着一串一串的硬壳果。一个男子和女子——“夏天”和他安静的妻子——在这儿休息着。
“多么丰富啊!”她说，“周围是一种丰饶的景象，使人觉得温暖和舒适。但是我不知道为什么，我渴望安静和休息——我不知道怎样把这感觉表达出来。现在大家又在田里工作了。人们总想获得更多、更多的东西。看吧，鹳鸟成群地来了，遥遥地在犁头后面跟着。那是把我们从空中送来的埃及的鸟儿啊!你记得当我们是一对小孩的时候，我们怎样来到这北方的国度吗?我们带来花儿、愉快的阳光和树林的绿色外衣。风儿对树林非常粗暴。那些树像南方的树一样，变成了黑色和棕色;可是它们没有像那些树一样，结出金黄的果实!”
“你想看到黄金的果实吗?”“夏天”说，“那么请你欣赏吧。”
他举起他的手臂。于是树林里的叶子就染上了一片深红和金黄;于是整个的树林就染上了美丽的色彩。玫瑰花里面亮着鲜红的野蔷薇子，接骨木树枝上沉重地挂着串串的黑果实;成熟了的野栗子从壳里脱落下来。在树林的深处，紫罗兰又开花了。
但是这“一年的皇后”一天一天地变得沉寂，一天一天地变得惨白。
“风吹得冷起来了!”她说，“夜带来了潮湿的雾。我渴望回到我儿时的故乡去。”
于是她看到鹳鸟飞走了。每一只都飞走了!她在它们后面伸着手。她抬头望望它们的窝——那里面是空的。有一个窝里还长出了一棵梗子很长的矢车菊;另一个窝里长出了一棵黄芥子，好像这窝就是为了保护它而存在似的。于是麻雀就飞上来了。
“吱吱!主人跑到什么地方去了?风一吹起来，他就有些吃不消了，所以他就离开这国家了。祝他有一个愉快的旅行!”
树林里的叶子渐渐变得枯黄了，一片一片地落下来;狂暴的秋风在怒号。这已经是深秋了;“一年的皇后”躺在枯黄的落叶上，用她温和的眼睛望着那些闪亮的星星，这时她的丈夫就站在她的身边。有一阵风从叶子上扫过;叶子又落了，皇后也不见了，只有一只蝴蝶——这一年最后的生物——在寒冷的空中飞过去。潮湿的雾下降了;接着就是冰冻的风和漫长的黑夜。这年的国王的头发都变得雪白了，但是他自己不知道;他以为那是从云块上飞下的雪花。不久，薄薄的一层雪就盖满了绿色的田野。
这时教堂上敲出圣诞节的钟声。
“这是婴孩④出生的钟声!”这年的国王说，“不久新的国王和皇后就要出生了。我将像我的妻子一样，要去休息了——到那明亮的星儿上去休息。”在一个新鲜的、盖满了雪的绿栎树林里，立着圣诞节的安琪儿。他封这些年轻的树儿为他圣诞晚会的装饰品⑤。
“愿客厅里和绿枝下充满了快乐!”这年的老国王说。在几个星期以内，他就变成了一个满头白发的老人。“我休息的时间快到了。这年的一对年轻人将得到我的王冠和节杖。”
“然而权还是属于你的，”圣诞节的安琪儿说，“你有权，你不能休息!让雪花温暖地盖在年幼的种子上吧!请你学习忍受着这样的事实：别人得到尊敬，虽然实际上是你在统治着。请你学习忍受着这样的事实：别人忘记你，虽然实际上你是在活着!当春天到来的时候，你休息的时期也就不远了。”
“春天什么时候到来呢?”“冬天”问。
“当鹳鸟回来的时候，他就到来了!”
满头白发和满脸白胡子的“冬天”，现出一副寒冷、佝偻和苍老的样子，不过他却健壮得像冬天的风暴，坚强得像冰块。他坐在山顶的积雪上，朝着南方望，正如他在上一个“冬天”坐着和望着一样。冰块发出刮刮的声音;雪在叽叽地响;溜冰人在光滑的湖面上飘来飘去;渡乌和乌鸦立在白地上，非常醒目。风儿没有一丝动静。在这无声无息的空气中，“冬天”紧捏着他的拳头，大地到处都结成几尺厚的冰块。
这时麻雀又从城里飞出来了，同时问：“那儿的老人是谁呢?”
渡乌又坐在那儿——也许这就是上一只渡乌的儿子吧，横竖都是一样的——对它们说：“那是‘冬天’——去年的老人。他并没有像历书上说的死去了;他正是快要到来的春天的保护者。”
“春天会在什么时候到来呢?”麻雀问，“只有他到来，我们才有快乐的时光和更好的统治!那个老家伙一点也不行。”
“冬天”望着那没有叶子的黑树林沉思地点着头。树林里的每一棵树都露出枝条的美丽形态和曲线。在这冬眠的时期，冰冷的雾从云块上降落下来;于是这位统治者就梦见了他的少年时代，梦见了他的青壮年时代。将近天明的时候，整个的树林已经穿上了一层美丽的白霜衣。这是“冬天”的夏夜梦。接着太阳就把白霜从树枝上驱走。
“‘春天’会在什么时候到来呢?”麻雀问。
“春天!”这像一个回音似的从盖满了雪的山丘上飘来。太阳照得更温暖，雪也融化了，鸟儿在喃喃地唱“春天到来了”!
于是第一只鹳鸟高高地从空中飞来了，接着第二只也飞来了。每只鹳鸟的背上坐着一个美丽的孩子。他们落到田野上来，吻了这土地，也吻了那个沉默的老人。于是这位老人就像立在山上的摩西⑥一样，在一团迷蒙的雾气中不见了。
这一年的故事也就结束了。
“这真是非常好!”麻雀们说，“而且这也是非常美，但是它跟历书上说的不相符，因此是不对的。”
①这是丹麦的一个古老的风俗：每年12月31日，年轻人把土罐子往农屋的门上打，闹出很大的声音来。主人这时就来追赶.最后就请他们到家里来喝酒。
②鹳鸟是一种候鸟。据丹麦民间的传说，它冬天飞到埃及去避寒;它同时还是“送子”的特使：小孩都是由它从辽远的地方送来的。
③在北欧，特别是在瑞典，夏天有一个时期几乎没有黑夜。
④指耶稣，圣诞节就是他的生日。
⑤基督教国家的习惯：在圣诞节的时候，客厅中总有一棵装饰得很华丽的枞树，上面挂着许多送给孩子们的圣诞礼物。
⑥据古代希伯莱人的传说，摩西是他们最早的立法者(见《圣经·旧约·出埃及记》第三十四章)，而他所定的法律是他站在西乃山上时与上帝商量好的。
一年的故事英文版：
The Story of the Year
IT was near the end of January, and a terrible fall of snow was pelting down, and whirling through the streets and lanes; the windows were plastered with snow on the outside, snow fell in masses from the roofs. Every one seemed in a great hurry; they ran, they flew, fell into each other’s arms, holding fast for a moment as long as they could stand safely. Coaches and horses looked as if they had been frosted with sugar. The footmen stood with their backs against the carriages, so as to turn their faces from the wind. The foot passengers kept within the shelter of the carriages, which could only move slowly on in the deep snow. At last the storm abated, and a narrow path was swept clean in front of the houses; when two persons met in this path they stood still, for neither liked to take the first step on one side into the deep snow to let the other pass him. There they stood silent and motionless, till at last, as if by tacit consent, they each sacrificed a leg and buried it in the deep snow. Towards evening, the weather became calm. The sky, cleared from the snow, looked more lofty and transparent, while the stars shone with new brightness and purity. The frozen snow crackled under foot, and was quite firm enough to bear the sparrows, who hopped upon it in the morning dawn. They searched for food in the path which had been swept, but there was very little for them, and they were terribly cold. “Tweet, tweet,” said one to another; “they call this a new year, but I think it is worse than the last. We might just as well have kept the old year; I’m quite unhappy, and I have a right to be so.”
“Yes, you have; and yet the people ran about and fired off guns, to usher in the new year,” said a little shivering sparrow. “They threw things against the doors, and were quite beside themselves with joy, because the old year had disappeared. I was glad too, for I expected we should have some warm days, but my hopes have come to nothing. It freezes harder than ever; I think mankind have made a mistake in reckoning time.”
“That they have,” said a third, an old sparrow with a white poll; “they have something they call a calendar; it’s an invention of their own, and everything must be arranged according to it, but it won’t do. When spring comes, then the year begins. It is the voice of nature, and I reckon by that.”
“But when will spring come?” asked the others.
“It will come when the stork returns, but he is very uncertain, and here in the town no one knows anything about it. In the country they have more knowledge; shall we fly away there and wait? we shall be nearer to spring then, certainly.”
“That may be all very well,” said another sparrow, who had been hopping about for a long time, chirping, but not saying anything of consequence, “but I have found a few comforts here in town which, I’m afraid, I should miss out in the country. Here in this neighborhood, there lives a family of people who have been so sensible as to place three or four flower-pots against the wall in the court-yard, so that the openings are all turned inward, and the bottom of each points outward. In the latter a hole has been cut large enough for me to fly in and out. I and my husband have built a nest in one of these pots, and all our young ones, who have now flown away, were brought up there. The people who live there of course made the whole arrangement that they might have the pleasure of seeing us, or they would not have done it. It pleased them also to strew bread-crumbs for us, and so we have food, and may consider ourselves provided for. So I think my husband and I will stay where we are; although we are not very happy, but we shall stay.”
“And we will fly into the country,” said the others, “to see if spring is coming.” And away they flew.
In the country it was really winter, a few degrees colder than in the town. The sharp winds blew over the snow-covered fields. The farmer, wrapped in warm clothing, sat in his sleigh, and beat his arms across his chest to keep off the cold. The whip lay on his lap. The horses ran till they smoked. The snow crackled, the sparrows hopped about in the wheel-ruts, and shivered, crying, “Tweet, tweet; when will spring come? It is very long in coming.”
“Very long indeed,” sounded over the field, from the nearest snow-covered hill. It might have been the echo which people heard, or perhaps the words of that wonderful old man, who sat high on a heap of snow, regardless of wind or weather. He was all in white; he had on a peasant’s coarse white coat of frieze. He had long white hair, a pale face, and large clear blue eyes. “Who is that old man?” asked the sparrows.
“I know who he is,” said an old raven, who sat on the fence, and was condescending enough to acknowledge that we are all equal in the sight of Heaven, even as little birds, and therefore he talked with the sparrows, and gave them the information they wanted. “I know who the old man is,” he said. “It is Winter, the old man of last year; he is not dead yet, as the calendar says, but acts as guardian to little Prince Spring who is coming. Winter rules here still. Ugh! the cold makes you shiver, little ones, does it not?”
“There! Did I not tell you so?” said the smallest of the sparrows. “The calendar is only an invention of man, and is not arranged according to nature. They should leave these things to us; we are created so much more clever than they are.”
One week passed, and then another. The forest looked dark, the hard-frozen lake lay like a sheet of lead. The mountains had disappeared, for over the land hung damp, icy mists. Large black crows flew about in silence; it was as if nature slept. At length a sunbeam glided over the lake, and it shone like burnished silver. But the snow on the fields and the hills did not glitter as before. The white form of Winter sat there still, with his un-wandering gaze fixed on the south. He did not perceive that the snowy carpet seemed to sink as it were into the earth; that here and there a little green patch of grass appeared, and that these patches were covered with sparrows.
“Tee-wit, tee-wit; is spring coming at last?”
Spring! How the cry resounded over field and meadow, and through the dark-brown woods, where the fresh green moss still gleamed on the trunks of the trees, and from the south came the two first storks flying through the air, and on the back of each sat a lovely little child, a boy and a girl. They greeted the earth with a kiss, and wherever they placed their feet white flowers sprung up from beneath the snow. Hand in hand they approached the old ice-man, Winter, embraced him and clung to his breast; and as they did so, in a moment all three were enveloped in a thick, damp mist, dark and heavy, that closed over them like a veil. The wind arose with mighty rustling tone, and cleared away the mist. Then the sun shone out warmly. Winter had vanished away, and the beautiful children of Spring sat on the throne of the year.
“This is really a new year,” cried all the sparrows, “now we shall get our rights, and have some return for what we suffered in winter.”
Wherever the two children wandered, green buds burst forth on bush and tree, the grass grew higher, and the corn-fields became lovely in delicate green.
The little maiden strewed flowers in her path. She held her apron before her: it was full of flowers; it was as if they sprung into life there, for the more she scattered around her, the more flowers did her apron contain. Eagerly she showered snowy blossoms over apple and peach-trees, so that they stood in full beauty before even their green leaves had burst from the bud. Then the boy and the girl clapped their hands, and troops of birds came flying by, no one knew from whence, and they all twittered and chirped, singing “Spring has come!” How beautiful everything was! Many an old dame came forth from her door into the sunshine, and shuffled about with great delight, glancing at the golden flowers which glittered everywhere in the fields, as they used to do in her young days. The world grew young again to her, as she said, “It is a blessed time out here to-day.” The forest already wore its dress of dark-green buds. The thyme blossomed in fresh fragrance. Primroses and anemones sprung forth, and violets bloomed in the shade, while every blade of grass was full of strength and sap. Who could resist sitting down on such a beautiful carpet? and then the young children of Spring seated themselves, holding each other’s hands, and sang, and laughed, and grew. A gentle rain fell upon them from the sky, but they did not notice it, for the rain-drops were their own tears of joy. They kissed each other, and were betrothed; and in the same moment the buds of the trees unfolded, and when the sun rose, the forest was green. Hand in hand the two wandered beneath the fresh pendant canopy of foliage, while the sun’s rays gleamed through the opening of the shade, in changing and varied colors. The delicate young leaves filled the air with refreshing odor. Merrily rippled the clear brooks and rivulets between the green, velvety rushes, and over the many-colored pebbles beneath. All nature spoke of abundance and plenty. The cuckoo sang, and the lark carolled, for it was now beautiful spring. The careful willows had, however, covered their blossoms with woolly gloves; and this carefulness is rather tedious. Days and weeks went by, and the heat increased. Warm air waved the corn as it grew golden in the sun. The white northern lily spread its large green leaves over the glossy mirror of the woodland lake, and the fishes sought the shadows beneath them. In a sheltered part of the wood, the sun shone upon the walls of a farm-house, brightening the blooming roses, and ripening the black juicy berries, which hung on the loaded cherry-trees, with his hot beams. Here sat the lovely wife of Summer, the same whom we have seen as a child and a bride; her eyes were fixed on dark gathering clouds, which in wavy outlines of black and indigo were piling themselves up like mountains, higher and higher. They came from every side, always increasing like a rising, rolling sea. Then they swooped towards the forest, where every sound had been silenced as if by magic, every breath hushed, every bird mute. All nature stood still in grave suspense. But in the lanes and the highways, passengers on foot or in carriages were hurrying to find a place of shelter. Then came a flash of light, as if the sun had rushed forth from the sky, flaming, burning, all-devouring, and darkness returned amid a rolling crash of thunder. The rain poured down in streams,—now there was darkness, then blinding light,—now thrilling silence, then deafening din. The young brown reeds on the moor waved to and fro in feathery billows; the forest boughs were hidden in a watery mist, and still light and darkness followed each other, still came the silence after the roar, while the corn and the blades of grass lay beaten down and swamped, so that it seemed impossible they could ever raise themselves again. But after a while the rain began to fall gently, the sun’s rays pierced the clouds, and the water-drops glittered like pearls on leaf and stem. The birds sang, the fishes leaped up to the surface of the water, the gnats danced in the sunshine, and yonder, on a rock by the heaving salt sea, sat Summer himself, a strong man with sturdy limbs and long, dripping hair. Strengthened by the cool bath, he sat in the warm sunshine, while all around him renewed nature bloomed strong, luxuriant, and beautiful: it was summer, warm, lovely summer. Sweet and pleasant was the fragrance wafted from the clover-field, where the bees swarmed round the ruined tower, the bramble twined itself over the old altar, which, washed by the rain, glittered in the sunshine; and thither flew the queen bee with her swarm, and prepared wax and honey. But Summer and his bosom-wife saw it with different eyes, to them the altar-table was covered with the offerings of nature. The evening sky shone like gold, no church dome could ever gleam so brightly, and between the golden evening and the blushing morning there was moonlight. It was indeed summer. And days and weeks passed, the bright scythes of the reapers glittered in the corn-fields, the branches of the apple-trees bent low, heavy with the red and golden fruit. The hop, hanging in clusters, filled the air with sweet fragrance, and beneath the hazel-bushes, where the nuts hung in great bunches, rested a man and a woman—Summer and his grave consort.
“See,” she exclaimed, “what wealth, what blessings surround us. Everything is home-like and good, and yet, I know not why, I long for rest and peace; I can scarcely express what I feel. They are already ploughing the fields again; more and more the people wish for gain. See, the storks are flocking together, and following the plough at a short distance. They are the birds from Egypt, who carried us through the air. Do you remember how we came as children to this land of the north; we brought with us flowers and bright sunshine, and green to the forests, but the wind has been rough with them, and they are now become dark and brown, like the trees of the south, but they do not, like them, bear golden fruit.”
“Do you wish to see golden fruit?” said the man, “then rejoice,” and he lifted his arm. The leaves of the forest put on colors of red and gold, and bright tints covered the woodlands. The rose-bushes gleamed with scarlet hips, and the branches of the elder-trees hung down with the weight of the full, dark berries. The wild chestnuts fell ripe from their dark, green shells, and in the forests the violets bloomed for the second time. But the queen of the year became more and more silent and pale.
“It blows cold,” she said, “and night brings the damp mist; I long for the land of my childhood.” Then she saw the storks fly away every one, and she stretched out her hands towards them. She looked at the empty nests; in one of them grew a long-stalked corn flower, in another the yellow mustard seed, as if the nest had been placed there only for its comfort and protection, and the sparrows were flying round them all.
“Tweet, where has the master of the nest gone?” cried one, “I suppose he could not bear it when the wind blew, and therefore he has left this country. I wish him a pleasant journey.”
The forest leaves became more and more yellow, leaf after leaf fell, and the stormy winds of Autumn howled. The year was now far advanced, and upon the fallen, yellow leaves, lay the queen of the year, looking up with mild eyes at a gleaming star, and her husband stood by her. A gust of wind swept through the foliage, and the leaves fell in a shower. The summer queen was gone, but a butterfly, the last of the year, flew through the cold air. Damp fogs came, icy winds blew, and the long, dark nights of winter approached. The ruler of the year appeared with hair white as snow, but he knew it not; he thought snow-flakes falling from the sky covered his head, as they decked the green fields with a thin, white covering of snow. And then the church bells rang out for Christmas time.
“The bells are ringing for the new-born year,” said the ruler, “soon will a new ruler and his bride be born, and. I shall go to rest with my wife in yonder light-giving star.”
In the fresh, green fir-wood, where the snow lay all around, stood the angel of Christmas, and consecrated the young trees that were to adorn his feast.
“May there be joy in the rooms, and under the green boughs,” said the old ruler of the year. In a few weeks he had become a very old man, with hair as white as snow. “My resting-time draws near; the young pair of the year will soon claim my crown and sceptre.”
“But the night is still thine,” said the angel of Christmas, “for power, but not for rest. Let the snow lie warmly upon the tender seed. Learn to endure the thought that another is worshipped whilst thou art still lord. Learn to endure being forgotten while yet thou livest. The hour of thy freedom will come when Spring appears.”
“And when will Spring come?” asked Winter.
“It will come when the stork returns.”
And with white locks and snowy beard, cold, bent, and hoary, but strong as the wintry storm, and firm as the ice, old Winter sat on the snowdrift-covered hill, looking towards the south, where Winter had sat before, and gazed. The ice glittered, the snow crackled, the skaters skimmed over the polished surface of the lakes; ravens and crows formed a pleasing contrast to the white ground, and not a breath of wind stirred, and in the still air old Winter clenched his fists, and the ice lay fathoms deep between the lands. Then came the sparrows again out of the town, and asked, “Who is that old man?” The raven sat there still, or it might be his son, which is the same thing, and he said to them,—
“It is Winter, the old man of the former year; he is not dead, as the calendar says, but he is guardian to the spring, which is coming.”
“When will Spring come?” asked the sparrows, “for we shall have better times then, and a better rule. The old times are worth nothing.”
And in quiet thought old Winter looked at the leafless forest, where the graceful form and bends of each tree and branch could be seen; and while Winter slept, icy mists came from the clouds, and the ruler dreamt of his youthful days and of his manhood, and in the morning dawn the whole forest glittered with hoar frost, which the sun shook from the branches,—and this was the summer dream of Winter.
“When will Spring come?” asked the sparrows. “Spring!” Again the echo sounded from the hills on which the snow lay. The sunshine became warmer, the snow melted, and the birds twittered, “Spring is coming!” And high in the air flew the first stork, and the second followed; a lovely child sat on the back of each, and they sank down on the open field, kissed the earth, and kissed the quiet old man; and, as the mist from the mountain top, he vanished away and disappeared. And the story of the year was finished.
“This is all very fine, no doubt,” said the sparrows, “and it is very beautiful; but it is not according to the calendar, therefore, it must be all wrong.”
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