“Hearest thou not the drum?  Bum!  Bum!  Those are the only two tones.  Always bum!  Bum!  Hark to the plaintive song of the old woman, to the call of the priests!  The Hindoo woman in her long robe stands upon the funeral pile; the flames rise around her and her dead husband, but the Hindoo woman thinks on the living one in the surrounding circle; on him whose eyes burn hotter than the flames—­on him, the fire of whose eyes pierces her heart more than the flames which soon will burn her body to ashes.  Can the heart’s flame die in the flame of the funeral pile?”

“I don’t understand that at all,” said little Gerda.

“That is my story,” said the Lily.

What did the Convolvulus say?

“Projecting over a narrow mountain-path there hangs an old feudal castle.  Thick evergreens grow on the dilapidated walls, and around the altar, where a lovely maiden is standing:  she bends over the railing and looks out upon the rose.  No fresher rose hangs on the branches than she; no appleblossom carried away by the wind is more buoyant!  How her silken robe is rustling!

“‘Is he not yet come?’”

“Is it Kay that you mean?” asked little Gerda.

“I am speaking about my story—­about my dream,” answered the Convolvulus.

What did the Snowdrops say?

“Between the trees a long board is hanging—­it is a swing.  Two little girls are sitting in it, and swing themselves backwards and forwards; their frocks are as white as snow, and long green silk ribands flutter from their bonnets.  Their brother, who is older than they are, stands up in the swing; he twines his arms round the cords to hold himself fast, for in one hand he has a little cup, and in the other a clay-pipe.  He is blowing soap-bubbles.  The swing moves, and the bubbles float in charming changing colors:  the last is still hanging to the end of the pipe, and rocks in the breeze.  The swing moves.  The little black dog, as light as a soap-bubble, jumps up on his hind legs to try to get into the swing.  It moves, the dog falls down, barks, and is angry.  They tease him; the bubble bursts!  A swing, a bursting bubble—­such is my song!”

“What you relate may be very pretty, but you tell it in so melancholy a manner, and do not mention Kay.”

What do the Hyacinths say?

“There were once upon a time three sisters, quite transparent, and very beautiful.  The robe of the one was red, that of the second blue, and that of the third white.  They danced hand in hand beside the calm lake in the clear moonshine.  They were not elfin maidens, but mortal children.  A sweet fragrance was smelt, and the maidens vanished in the wood; the fragrance grew stronger—­three coffins, and in them three lovely maidens, glided out of the forest and across the lake:  the shining glow-worms flew around like little floating lights.  Do the dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead?  The odour of the flowers says they are corpses; the evening bell tolls for the dead!”