Fairy Tales

in the home of the poor farmer. And the old grandfather dried his eyes because he had known and lived for King Frederick with his silver white hair and the honest blue eyes. He folded his hands and stared silently into space. Then the old grandfather’s daughter-in-law came to tell him that it was late. It was time to rest, and supper was ready.

“But what a great job you have done, Grandfather!” she said. “Holger the Dane and our whole old Danish coat-of-arms! I think I’ve seen that face before!”

“No, I don’t think you have,” said the old grandfather. “But I’ve seen it, and I’ve striven to carve it into the wood as I remember it. It was at the time of the Battle of Copenhagen on April 2, 1801 when we learned that we were like the Danes of old! I was on the Danmark in Steen Bille’s⁸ fleet, and there was a man by my side. It seemed as if the cannon balls were afraid of him! He sang old songs cheerfully and shot and fought as if he were super-human. I still remember his face, but where he came from and where he went afterwards, I don’t know. No one knows. I’ve often thought that maybe it was old Holger the Dane himself who had swum down from Kronborg to help us in our time of danger. That was my thought, and there is his image!”

The figure cast its huge shadow way up the wall, even onto the ceiling. It looked as if it were the real Holger the Dane himself standing back there because the shadow moved, but that could also be because the candle flame wasn’t burning steadily. His daughter-in-law kissed the old grandfather and led him into the big chair by the table. She and her husband, who was the old grandfather’s son and the father of the little boy in the bed, ate their supper, and the old grandfather talked about the Danish lions and hearts—about strength and gentleness, and he quite clearly explained that there was a strength other than that which lay in the sword. He pointed to the shelf where old books were lying, among them all of Holberg’s plays. They were often read because they were so entertaining, and you really felt that you knew all the characters from the old days in them.

“See, he knew how to carve too,” said the old grandfather. “He cut the wrong and rough stuff off of people the best he could.” And old grandfather nodded over at the mirror, where the calendar was hanging with a picture of the Round Tower, and then he said, “Tycho Brahe⁹ was another one who used the sword, not to cut flesh and bone, but to hew a clearer way through the stars in the sky. And then he whose father was of my trade, the old wood carver’s son, whom we ourselves have seen with his white hair and the strong shoulders, who’s known all over the world! Yes, he could carve. I only whittle. Holger the Dane can appear in many ways so that the whole world hears of Denmark’s strength. Let’s drink a toast to Bertel!”¹⁰

But the little boy in the bed clearly saw old Kronborg by the Oresund, and the real Holger the Dane, who sat deep down there with his beard grown fast to the marble table and dreamed about everything that happens up here. Holger the Dane also dreamed about the poor little room where the wood carver sat. He heard everything that was said and nodded in his dreams and said, “Just remember me, Danes! Keep me in your thoughts! I will come in your hour of need!”

And out at Kronborg it was a clear, sunny day, and the wind carried the sounds of the hunting horns from neighboring Sweden. The ships sailed by with their greeting “boom! boom!” and from Kronborg came the reply “boom! boom!” But Holger the Dane didn’t wake up no matter how loudly they shot since they were just saying “good day” and “many thanks.” It will take a different kind of shooting to wake him up, but he will do so, for there is plenty of courage and strength in Holger the Dane.

NOTES

1 The Danish prince Canute I became undisputed king of England in 1016, as he did of Denmark in 1016 and Norway in 1028.

2 King of Denmark from 1157 to 1182.

3 Queen of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden who lived from 1353 to 1412.

4 Daughter of King Christian IV (1621-1698); for many years she was imprisoned, for suspected treason, in the blue tower at the castle in Copenhagen. Her Jammersminde (Memory of Woe) is considered a classic of Danish autobiography.

5 Native Norwegian Ivar Huitfeldt (1665-1710) was a Danish naval hero; he sacrificed himself and his ship Dannebrog in a battle on October 4, 1710, to prevent the Swedish advance into Koge Bay.

6 Norwegian missionary to Greenland (1686-1758).

7 King of Denmark (1808-1839) and of Norway (1808-1814).

8 Danish naval officer (1751-1833).

9 Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe (1546-1601) built an observatory on the island of Hven.

10 Danish neoclassical sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen (1770-1844).

BIRD PHOENIX

IN THE GARDEN OF Eden, under the Tree of Knowledge, stood a hedge of roses. Inside the first rose that bloomed, a bird was born. Its flight was like light, glorious its colors and splendid its song.

But when Eve picked the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and she and Adam were chased from the Garden of Eden, a spark fell from the avenging angel’s sword of flame into the nest and ignited it. The bird died in the flames, but from the red egg a new bird arose—the only—the always only—bird Phoenix. Legend tells that it nests in Arabia and that every hundred years it burns itself up in its nest, and from the red egg a new Phoenix flies, the only one in the world.

The bird flutters around us, swift as light, glorious in color and splendid in song. When the mother sits by her child’s cradle, it’s by the pillow and sweeps a halo around the child’s head with its wings. It flies through the rooms of frugality and brings sunshine there, where the simple cupboards waft with the scent of violets.

But bird Phoenix isn’t just Arabia’s bird. It flutters in the glow of the northern lights over the icy fields of Lapland. It leaps amongst the yellow flowers in Greenland’s short summer. Under the copper mines of Fahlun¹ and in England’s coal mines, it flies like a moth with dust on its wings over the song book in the pious worker’s hand. It sails on the lotus leaf by the holy waters of the Ganges, and the eyes of the Hindu girl light up when she sees it.

Bird Phoenix! Don’t you know him? The bird of paradise, the sacred swan of song. It sat on the Thespian cart as a gossiping raven and flapped with its soiled black wings. With a swan’s red sonorous beak it glided over Iceland’s bards. It rested on Shakespeare’s shoulder as one of Odin’s ravens,² and