The tin soldier stood in full light and felt a fearful heat; but whether that came from the real fire, or from his glowing love, he could not tell.  All the color had faded from him; but whether this had happened on the journey, or whether it came from care, no one could say.  He looked at the little girl and she looked at him.  He felt that he was melting, but still he stood steadfast, musket in hand.  Then a door opened.  A whiff of air caught the dancer, and she flew like a sylph right into the tile-stove to the tin soldier, blazed up in flame, and was gone.  Then the tin soldier melted to a lump, and when the maid next day took out the ashes, she found him as a little tin heart.  But of the dancer only the star was left, and that was burnt coal-black.

THE TEAPOT

From ‘Riverside Literature Series’:  1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

There was a proud Teapot, proud of being porcelain, proud of its long spout, proud of its broad handle.  It had something before and behind—­the spout before, the handle behind—­and that was what it talked about.  But it did not talk of its lid—­that was cracked, it was riveted, it had faults; and one does not talk about one’s faults—­there are plenty of others to do that.  The cups, the cream-pot, the sugar-bowl, the whole tea-service would be reminded much more of the lid’s weakness, and talk about that, than of the sound handle and the remarkable spout.  The Teapot knew it.

“I know you,” it said within itself, “I know well enough, too, my fault; and I am well aware that in that very thing is seen my humility, my modesty.  We all have faults, but then one also has a talent.  The cups get a handle, the sugar-bowl a lid; I get both, and one thing besides in front which they never got,—­I get a spout, and that makes me a queen on the tea-table.  The sugar-bowl and cream-pot are good-looking serving maids; but I am the one who gives, yes, the one high in council.  I spread abroad a blessing among thirsty mankind.  In my insides the Chinese leaves are worked up in the boiling, tasteless water.”

All this said the Teapot in its fresh young life.  It stood on the table that was spread for tea, it was lifted by a very delicate hand; but the very delicate hand was awkward, the Teapot fell.  The spout snapped off, the handle snapped off; the lid was no worse to speak of—­the worst had been spoken of that.  The Teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the boiling water ran out of it.  It was a horrid shame, but the worst was that they jeered at it; they jeered at it, and not at the awkward hand.