BY THE ALMSHOUSE WINDOW故事

　　 NEAR the grass-covered rampart which encircles Copenhagen

　　 lies a great red house. Balsams and other flowers greet us

　　 from the long rows of windows in the house, whose interior is

　　 sufficiently poverty-stricken; and poor and old are the people

　　 who inhabit it. The building is the Warton Almshouse.

　　 Look! at the window there leans an old maid. She plucks

　　 the withered leaf from the balsam, and looks at the

　　 grass-covered rampart, on which many children are playing.

　　 What is the old maid thinking of? A whole life drama is

　　 unfolding itself before her inward gaze.

　　 "The poor little children, how happy they are- how merrily

　　 they play and romp together! What red cheeks and what angels'

　　 eyes! but they have no shoes nor stockings. They dance on the

　　 green rampart, just on the place where, according to the old

　　 story, the ground always sank in, and where a sportive,

　　 frolicsome child had been lured by means of flowers, toys and

　　 sweetmeats into an open grave ready dug for it, and which was

　　 afterwards closed over the child; and from that moment, the

　　 old story says, the ground gave way no longer, the mound

　　 remained firm and fast, and was quickly covered with the green

　　 turf. The little people who now play on that spot know nothing

　　 of the old tale, else would they fancy they heard a child

　　 crying deep below the earth, and the dewdrops on each blade of

　　 grass would be to them tears of woe. Nor do they know anything

　　 of the Danish King who here, in the face of the coming foe,

　　 took an oath before all his trembling courtiers that he would

　　 hold out with the citizens of his capital, and die here in his

　　 nest; they know nothing of the men who have fought here, or of

　　 the women who from here have drenched with boiling water the

　　 enemy, clad in white, and 'biding in the snow to surprise the

　　 city.

　　 "No! the poor little ones are playing with light, childish

　　 spirits. Play on, play on, thou little maiden! Soon the years

　　 will come- yes, those glorious years. The priestly hands have

　　 been laid on the candidates for confirmation; hand in hand

　　 they walk on the green rampart. Thou hast a white frock on; it

　　 has cost thy mother much labor, and yet it is only cut down

　　 for thee out of an old larger dress! You will also wear a red

　　 shawl; and what if it hang too far down? People will only see

　　 how large, how very large it is. You are thinking of your

　　 dress, and of the Giver of all good- so glorious is it to

　　 wander on the green rampart!

　　 "And the years roll by; they have no lack of dark days,

　　 but you have your cheerful young spirit, and you have gained a

　　 friend- you know not how. You met, oh, how often! You walk

　　 together on the rampart in the fresh spring, on the high days

　　 and holidays, when all the world come out to walk upon the

　　 ramparts, and all the bells of the church steeples seem to be

　　 singing a song of praise for the coming spring.

　　 "Scarcely have the violets come forth, but there on the

　　 rampart, just opposite the beautiful Castle of Rosenberg,

　　 there is a tree bright with the first green buds. Every year

　　 this tree sends forth fresh green shoots. Alas! It is not so

　　 with the human heart! Dark mists, more in number than those

　　 that cover the northern skies, cloud the human heart. Poor

　　 child! thy friend's bridalchamber is a black coffin, and thou

　　 becomest an old maid. From the almshouse window, behind the

　　 balsams, thou shalt look on the merry children at play, and

　　 shalt see thine own history renewed."

　　 And that is the life drama that passes before the old maid

　　 while she looks out upon the rampart, the green, sunny

　　 rampart, where the children, with their red cheeks and bare

　　 shoeless feet, are rejoicing mer

　　rily, like the other free

　　 little birds.

　　 THE END