He had hardly uttered these hasty words when the skirts and sleeves of his coat folded themselves together into wings; the clothes became feathers, and the galoshes claws.  He observed it perfectly, and laughed in his heart.  “Now then, there is no doubt that I am dreaming; but I never before was aware of such mad freaks as these.”  And up he flew into the green roof and sang; but in the song there was no poetry, for the spirit of the poet was gone.  The Shoes, as is the case with anybody who does what he has to do properly, could only attend to one thing at a time.  He wanted to be a poet, and he was one; he now wished to be a merry chirping bird:  but when he was metamorphosed into one, the former peculiarities ceased immediately.  “It is really pleasant enough,” said he:  “the whole day long I sit in the office amid the driest law-papers, and at night I fly in my dream as a lark in the gardens of Fredericksburg; one might really write a very pretty comedy upon it.”  He now fluttered down into the grass, turned his head gracefully on every side, and with his bill pecked the pliant blades of grass, which, in comparison to his present size, seemed as majestic as the palm-branches of northern Africa.

Unfortunately the pleasure lasted but a moment.  Presently black night overshadowed our enthusiast, who had so entirely missed his part of copying-clerk at a police-office; some vast object seemed to be thrown over him.  It was a large oil-skin cap, which a sailor-boy of the quay had thrown over the struggling bird; a coarse hand sought its way carefully in under the broad rim, and seized the clerk over the back and wings.  In the first moment of fear, he called, indeed, as loud as he could—­“You impudent little blackguard!  I am a copying-clerk at the police-office; and you know you cannot insult any belonging to the constabulary force without a chastisement.  Besides, you good-for-nothing rascal, it is strictly forbidden to catch birds in the royal gardens of Fredericksburg; but your blue uniform betrays where you come from.”  This fine tirade sounded, however, to the ungodly sailor-boy like a mere “Pippi-pi.”  He gave the noisy bird a knock on his beak, and walked on.

He was soon met by two schoolboys of the upper class—­that is to say as individuals, for with regard to learning they were in the lowest class in the school; and they bought the stupid bird.  So the copying-clerk came to Copenhagen as guest, or rather as prisoner in a family living in Gother Street.

“’Tis well that I’m dreaming,” said the clerk, “or I really should get angry.  First I was a poet; now sold for a few pence as a lark; no doubt it was that accursed poetical nature which has metamorphosed me into such a poor harmless little creature.  It is really pitiable, particularly when one gets into the hands of a little blackguard, perfect in all sorts of cruelty to animals:  all I should like to know is, how the story will end.”